We Are Not Ourselves
by lithugraph
Summary: A/U: Gilbert and Roderich's relationship has never been ideal, but somehow they've always made it work. As Weimar Era Germany draws to a close, a new threat looms on the horizon. The world around them is changing, bringing with it new challenges and decisions that have far-reaching consequences. Meanwhile, Ludwig tries to face his past. Part 2, sequel to 'Lost Generation'.
1. Chapter 1 - Unreal City

_We are not ourselves, when nature, being oppress'd, commands the mind to suffer with the body. – King Lear_

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 **Chapter 1 - Unreal City**

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 **Dessau, 1932**

The electric iron let out a hiss of steam, scenting the air with the sweet smell of lemon starch as Ludwig pressed his shirt. The sound made him wince in the relative quiet of early morning. Not even the birds seemed to be awake yet. But he was. He always rose early. Even when he used to spend late nights at the cabaret, he always woke with the sun's first light. He knew how to move about, going through morning routines in silence, so as not to wake anyone. Get dressed, make coffee, eat breakfast, repeat. This morning was no different. He'd washed his face, started the coffee, and had a bit of toast. He wasn't terribly hungry and his rumpled shirt took precedence. His flat in Dessau was less than half the size of the one in Berlin, amounting to only a bedroom with a kitchen attached. As neat as he was, Ludwig did not fancy picking up a stray crumb or coffee stain on his newly washed shirt, leaving him with little choice but to do the ironing in his room.

The iron hissed again, accompanied by a rumbling breath from the bed. Ludwig arched an eyebrow, casting a glance over to the man sleeping there, wondering if he had heard it. But the gentle rise and fall of the blankets told Ludwig the man was still asleep. He let go of a breath and continued with his chore, supposing he should have known better. Ivan, much like Gilbert and Roderich, did not like mornings.

Ludwig unplugged the iron when he was done and pulled on the freshly pressed shirt with a sigh at the still-warm fabric.

"What are you doing up?" a sleepy, lilting voice said. "Come back to bed."

Ludwig glanced over his shoulder, his look of surprise changing to a smirk as he buttoned the cuffs. "I can't. I have an early class."

Ivan groaned and rolled over onto his side. He propped himself up on one elbow, watching Ludwig dress.

Ludwig stood in front of a chest of drawers. A small mirror sat perched on top. He dragged a comb through his hair, pausing to check the angles of his reflection, making sure he got every last strand.

"You're so fussy," Ivan teased, snaking an arm around Ludwig's waist and pulling him onto the bed.

"Hey! Stop, stop!" Ludwig balked, hitting Ivan's hand with his comb. "I just ironed this. You'll wrinkle it!" He wriggled out of the Russian's grip and snatched the mirror off the set of drawers, taking it to the opposite side of the room and checking his reflection again.

"So meticulous," Ivan said, flopping onto his back.

Ludwig glanced over at him again, trying his best to keep his face stern. "I was trying not to wake you. Go back to sleep," he said with a hint of a smile.

"Can't," Ivan grumbled.

"Why not?"

"The bed is cold."

"Well maybe you should try visiting me when I'm not in school. We could spend a weekend together."

Ivan pushed himself up, folding his arms over his bare chest. "You know I can't."

"You could spare _one."_ Ludwig put the mirror back where it belonged and sat on the bed.

Ivan took his hand. He kissed the palm and pressed it to his cheek. "...Why don't you come with me?"

"To Berlin?" Ludwig said, his icy blue gaze turning even colder as he looked at Ivan.

Ivan let his eyes drop. He kissed Ludwig's hand again.

Ludwig let out an annoyed sigh, pulling his hand away. "We've been over this. I don't _want_ to go back there."

"But it's your-"

"Don't say it-"

"-home."

"It is _not_ my home," Ludwig hissed, getting to his feet. " _My home_ is wherever I choose it to be."

"Would you choose it to be with me?" Ivan said with a grin. He reached for Ludwig's hand, entwining their fingers.

Ludwig let himself be pulled onto Ivan's lap. He combed his fingers through the Russian's ashy blonde locks, resting his hand on the back of Ivan's neck. He drew their lips together in a soft kiss, suppressing the growing cold sensation that had settled in the pit of his stomach at the mention of Berlin.

Ludwig drew back and swallowed, cool blue eyes locked on Ivan. Whether Ivan was satisfied with his answer, he could not tell. Rarely did the Russian let him see through his impassive mask anymore. It made Ludwig afraid he was catching on. Or maybe he already knew...

 _Make it real for them._

Ludwig stood and retrieved his shoes. Ivan pushed himself out of bed and pulled his undershirt over his head. He went to the wash basin and splashed cold water on his face.

"Roderich's been asking about you," he said, toweling off. He plopped back down on the mattress, the bed springs groaning under his weight.

Ludwig watched from the corner of his eye as he bent to tie his laces. "...Really?"

Ivan nodded. "Yep. Well, it's been, what, two years? since he last saw you."

"...Something like that. A little less I think. What - what about - Gil?"

"Ah, your brother never had words for me...at least ones not worth repeating. And he still doesn't."

Ludwig puffed out a breath. "Right. Yeah."

The rustling sound of fabric caught Ludwig's attention. He turned to see Ivan pulling on his pants.

"Going somewhere?" Ludwig said with a dubious look. He straightened and stood.

"Not yet. My train leaves this afternoon. Since you're up, I may as well be, too."

Ludwig drifted over, his bottom lip curling in a pout. "...Will you be here when I get back?"

Ivan shrugged a shoulder with a sly grin that soon became serious when he realized Ludwig's frown was not affected. He held out his arms. Ludwig went to him, pressing his cheek against Ivan's warm, broad chest.

"You can travel to the farthest corner of the world, Ludwig, but you cannot run from yourself." Ivan kissed his head. "You should think about going home."

Ludwig left shortly after. Shouldering his bag and shoving his hands in his pockets, his feet traced the familiar route to school. He kept his head down, bowed against an early autumn breeze, his thoughts occasionally alighting on something Ivan had said.

He never thought it was himself he was running from. He had made his choices and seen them out, much to his brother's displeasure. He had chosen to be Lola, and he had been determined to see it through to the end. He and Roderich had agreed. His livelihood, as well as Roderich's, and the girls', depended on him. They weren't blind. Everyone knew it was _he_ who brought the crowds Friday and Saturday nights. Sometimes he was Lola, sometimes he was her parody. It did not matter. The men only wanted to see _him_ , to dance with _him._ And they paid good money for it. None ever dared spend the night with him, though, for they all knew he was Ivan's. Ever since his debut, his first dance with the Russian, it became an unspoken and universal rule of The Supper Club.

The nights he worked the club were spent with Ivan, when the Russian wasn't out seeing to his other "businesses." He saw Alfred during the week and the nights Ivan wasn't there. Ivan knew, of course. And oddly didn't seem to mind - though maybe it was because he knew the American's time was coming to an end in Berlin. Ludwig often wondered if Ivan didn't have some sort of a sixth sense. So many of his predictions were often true.

Alfred left in December - two weeks before Ludwig turned eighteen - and five months before he had planned. Ivan knew, had figured it out somehow, and took care to warn Ludwig, though the news still came as a bit of a shock. Ludwig understood why - Alfred was still under the will of his father and his father had demanded he come home. Alfred promised to write, but only one letter ever came.

Ludwig pushed the thought away, burying the bitter sting. It often caught him at moments like this, when his mind was most vulnerable. He didn't want to think about Alfred's words, Alfred's promises, the letters that never came. He had been sure, _so sure_ Alfred had been real. Tangible. Something he could hold onto...

He shifted his satchel as he neared his building, noticing the definite lack of students. He knew it was early but...there were usually more people on campus even at this time. As he approached the door, he saw notices pasted in the windows. He paid them no mind. There were always fliers all over the place, advertising exhibitions or student rallies. He turned the handle but was surprised when the door wouldn't budge. He tried the other one. It remained firmly closed. Locked. The building was locked...

Ludwig furrowed his brow as something on one of the notices caught his eye. An eagle. And beneath it, a symbol. One he had seen before.

The memory of an improvised parade on a windy sidewalk in June floated back to him. Boys in brown shirts, singing propaganda songs...The pamphlets his brother read, their pages curling in the fireplace as Roderich threw them in, turning that symbol to ash, as he and Gilbert shouted at each other...

A numbness gripped him as he read.

They had closed the school.

They couldn't have...

There was no way...

But they did.

Ludwig swallowed, glancing around nervously, almost afraid he would be assaulted just for _being_ there. He shifted his satchel again and turned and ran.

He ran back to his flat, taking the stairs two at a time. He flung open his door, out of breath and clutching a stitch in his side.

Ivan was seated at the small table in the kitchen, a cup of coffee halfway to his lips. He appeared wholly nonplussed to see Ludwig standing there nearly bent double catching his breath. His only hint of concern was the slight wrinkle in his brow.

"Back so soon?" Ivan smirked and the wrinkle vanished. His eyes sharpened - acute, alert - fixing on Ludwig as he stumbled numbly over and sank into the chair opposite. "Something has upset you. What is it?"

Ludwig fumbled for a moment, trying to get his brain into gear. He felt dizzy. Like he had been holding his breath as he ran back...

"Ludwig," Ivan said, covering the blonde's hand with his own.

His mind engaged at Ivan's touch. His head seemed to stop spinning...

"They - they closed it," Ludwig said. "They closed my school."

"Who did?"

Ludwig's eyes found Ivan's. The Russian's expression darkened as he read the answer on Ludwig's face.

"What does it mean?" Ludwig whispered.

Ivan drew back, taking a sip of coffee, and giving himself time to think.

"It means something, doesn't it? _Doesn't_ it?" Ludwig pressed. "You wouldn't have that look otherwise."

Ivan glanced up, a smile softening his face. " _Solnyshko_ ," he sighed, taking Ludwig's hand and pressing it to his lips. "It's time to go home."

. . .

 **Berlin**

Roderich sat at the kitchen table, sorting through the previous day's mail. It was almost noon. Any minute, he expected Gilbert to blow in, complaining he was starving and wanting food.

Any minute...

The flat was quiet.

Had been all morning. And the night before.

Roderich didn't sleep much anymore. He would lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to night sounds. A lot like when he was in Italy. More than a few times, he felt those memories returning. And more than a few times, he thought about asking Antonio for some sleeping pills. But he never did.

Roderich brushed the hair out of his face and sat back with a huff, staring at the pile of post before him. He couldn't concentrate. The names and addresses didn't make sense. The letters and numbers may as well have been written in Cyrillic. It was too quiet.

He pulled himself to his feet, went into the other room and switched on the radio. He turned the volume up so he could hear it in the kitchen.

 _Jesus, Specs. Are ya deaf?_ Gilbert would say, using his hands as ear muffs.

He shuffled back to his seat, smirking to himself as he lit a cigarette. He could just picture it...

And then _he_ would say: _I don't know_ what _you're talking about, Gilbert. I'm listening at a reasonable volume._

And then Gilbert would say: _Tell that to our neighbors. They know more about our business than_ we _do._

And then Ludwig would...

Ludwig - would -

The grin slid away from Roderich's face. His eyes drifted back down to the envelopes on the table. He remembered what he had been looking for. What he always looked for, every time he checked the mail.

His heart began to race as his throat grew tight.

He was a fool.

Such a fool.

The flat was too quiet.

.

.

.

The train sped north and east. The countryside flew by in the dull greens of late summer aging into early autumn, shot with the occasional brown and grey of a small town or village.

Despite Ivan's constant insistence he return to Berlin, Ludwig remained in Dessau another week, waiting for his school to re-open. He still could not believe it was closed. _How_ could the administration let this happen? It felt like a betrayal - and one he took personally. He had always maintained his faith in the system. It was one of the few things that never failed him. The rules were simple, easy to follow: Be a good boy, don't cause a fuss, get good grades, and you'll do fine. And he _had_ followed the rules, had done everything _right_ \- or as close to right as he could - and now...everything he had worked for was being taken away. The structure - the thing on which he had come to rely, had built his foundation - was crumbling.

When Ivan visited the following week, Ludwig decided to return with him to Berlin.

A nagging feeling prickled the back of his head as the distance between the city and himself shrank. Gilbert and Roderich didn't even know he was coming. He should have phoned - or at least written. Arriving unannounced, as he was, reflected bad manners. What would they do, when he knocked on the door, asking for a place to stay? He hadn't exactly tried very hard to keep in contact. Would they turn him away?

A part of him - the part that had kept his hand from picking up a phone or a pen - hoped they would. Then he could return to Dessau, to his _own_ flat, and...and what? What was left in Dessau for him now? Ludwig leaned his head against the window.

Across from him sat Ivan, reading a newspaper he had bought at the station. He folded it up, laying it on his lap when he was finished, and leaned his head back against the seat, eyes slipping half shut as he let himself be rocked by the train. His hands rested on his thighs. Tense. Ludwig could tell by the way he held them. He wanted to reach over, to take Ivan's hand in his, but...after last week, he decided it was best to use caution.

He scanned the passengers in their car, each absorbed in their own world. Their shirts were white and blue and beige, lavender and yellow. Ludwig wondered, if the time ever came, would they trade their colors for brown?

.

The train arrived in Berlin two hours later. As he disembarked, Ludwig realized with a twisting in his gut that it was on this very platform he said goodbye to Alfred.

He had kissed him.

In front of the whole world to see.

He had kissed Alfred, without a care for what anyone thought. Like Roderich and Gilbert used to.

Ludwig frowned, shifting his suitcase to the other hand, worrying once again at the looks he might get should he and Ivan stand too close. Just like with Feliciano.

He didn't _want_ to be here. He wanted to get back on the train, go _back_ to Dessau, and be alone with Ivan in his own flat, shut away from everyone...

But Ivan was already cutting a hole through the crowd thronging the platform, and Ludwig couldn't help but follow.

A car stood waiting for them outside the station, its driver buffing out a spot on the glossy black paint with the cuff of his maroon coat.

He rushed over when he saw Ivan, taking both his and Ludwig's suitcases with a nervous smile. Ludwig nodded his thanks. He was the same driver Ivan had had for years, but it struck Ludwig as he got in the car, with so much changing around him, that this kid never seemed to age.

Ivan gave the kid an address, and within minutes, they were driving through the maze of city blocks. Ivan settled back into seat, looking over at Ludwig and placing a hand on his thigh. The unease Ludwig had felt about returning began to dissipate. He shifted closer until their legs touched. Ivan angled his head, brushing his lips along Ludwig's jaw, just under his ear. Ludwig let go of a long-held breath. He took Ivan's hand, giving it a squeeze.

It seemed hardly a heartbeat had passed before they were pulling up outside of Ludwig's old flat in Kreuzberg. Ludwig looked up at the building, a knot twisting in his stomach.

Ivan caught his gaze, drawing him back. "I will see you tonight, yes?"

Ludwig swallowed hard and nodded.

Ivan kissed him one last time.

Ludwig got out of the car, got his luggage, and made his way up to his old flat.

He drew level with their door, hesitating a moment before giving two swift knocks. It opened immediately, as if he had been expected...

Framed in the doorway, still in his dressing robe and pajamas, stood Roderich. He stared at Ludwig a moment, as if he were not quite sure what he was seeing. Ludwig nervously cleared his throat, starting to feel his presence might not be welcome (and finding it odd Roderich was still not dressed for the day).

Roderich's mouth fell open as comprehension dawned across his face. He reached out, pulling Ludwig into a tight embrace.

Ludwig's suitcase fell to the floor with an echoing thud as he worked to process what was happening. Roderich. Was hugging him. Roderich...

He was still in a state of shock as he hugged the Austrian too.

Roderich drew back, hands going to Ludwig's arms. He tilted his head to look at the young man fully.

"Ludwig," Roderich breathed. "It's so good to see you. Please, please come in. Come in!" He stepped back, flapping his hands and waving Ludwig into the flat.

Ludwig picked up his suitcase, following Roderich in.

"Well. This is a surprise!" the Austrian said, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"I'm sorry, Roderich," Ludwig said, the automatic response ready on his tongue. "It's just - I - I mean, I should have - " He stopped abruptly, looking helpless for a moment. Why did he always trip over his words around Roderich? What was it about the Austrian that he could make Ludwig feel so insecure, even when wearing a bathrobe?

"Is everything...all right?"

Ludwig swallowed and shook his head. "They closed the school," he said in a small voice. "And I...I just need a place to stay for a bit. You know, to figure things out and...a-and I don't mean to impose, but - "

"Of course," Roderich said, somewhat taken aback. "It's no imposition at all. This is _your_ home, too."

Ludwig looked up with a self-conscious smile. "Thank you."

He took his luggage down the hall to his old room.

"Oh! B-but, um...I should - " Roderich stammered, limping after him.

Ludwig pushed open his bedroom door, expecting to see his room just the way he'd left it.

" - warn you."

Ludwig's mouth fell open when he saw it. It was his room, but...not. The furniture was the same but had been rearranged. The blankets on the bed were a different shade of blue. And scattered here and there were things that...did not belong to him. He turned to Roderich, brow furrowing.

Roderich sniffed, clutching the collar of his bathrobe closer to him. "Your brother has been staying here," he said jerkily. His eyes swept to the floor. "I can make him sleep on the couch, if - "

"No," Ludwig said. "No, that's...okay. I'll - I can take the couch. I mean, like I said, I-I won't be here long, and - "

Roderich nodded at the floor.

"I'm honestly surprised he's still here," Ludwig said under his breath.

Roderich's lips tightened into a thin line. "Your brother is not a complete idiot, Ludwig."

"Maybe not, but you shouldn't let him leech off of you like this."

Roderich shrugged. "You never knew him the way I did," he said in a quiet voice. "And...m-maybe I need him, too. In a way."

Ludwig gave a noncommittal grunt. "Where is he, anyway?"

"At the club. I hope," Roderich sighed.

The clock in the living room struck the hour.

"I suppose I ought to get dressed and head down there myself," Roderich continued, sounding almost as if he were being forced against his will. "We'll walk down together," he said, brightening a bit. "Antonio and Feliks miss you. They're always pestering Ivan for updates."

Roderich limped into his bedroom and shut the door. Ludwig shuffled back down the hall to the living room, his suitcase a dead weight in his hand. He set it beside the sofa and flopped into a seat, wishing he had never come back.

.

Roderich held open the lobby door, ushering him inside. Ludwig had to concede he was looking forward to seeing Antonio and Feliks again. All the girls, really. They made their way down through the dining hall, towards the stage. Roderich leaned heavily on his cane, his feet seeming to drag the closer they got. And Ludwig saw why.

Gilbert's eyes were trained on them like a hawk as he dried a beer glass. He set it on the counter, flung the rag over his shoulder, and sauntered out from behind the bar.

"Well, look who remembered he has a family. Are you gonna give your brother a hug or what?" Gilbert said, steering Ludwig by the shoulder. Away from Roderich.

Ludwig reluctantly leaned in as Gilbert threw an arm over his shoulder, clapping him on the back.

"What, you just decide to turn up out of the blue?" Gilbert sneered. "Or did _he_ trick you into being a part of his little act again?"

"No," Ludwig said coolly, shrugging off his brother's arm. "I suppose you have your party to thank for me being here. They closed my school."

Gilbert, for once, seemed to be at a loss for what to say - until he turned his attention to Roderich.

"Better late than never, boss. This place used to be your bread and butter. Guess it's a good thing you have me to pick up your slack."

Roderich ignored this and lit a cigarette, hobbling past to the kitchen.

"Gil, that's enough," Ludwig ground out.

But Gilbert wasn't listening. "Seems lately you can't be bothered to give two shits about it," he called snidely. "Ever since your _star_ left and all."

Ludwig saw Roderich's shoulders tense. He waited for the Austrian to spin around, tongue armed with a stinging barb, ready to put Gilbert in his place. Instead Roderich limped off, disappearing behind the double doors.

"Goddammit, Gil!" Ludwig hissed, rounding on his brother. "What the hell is wrong with you?" His hand curled around Gilbert's shirt front before he even realized what he was doing. He shoved Gilbert into the bar.

Gilbert let out a yelp of pain that became a gasp for air as the wooden edge dug into the small of his back. One hand went to Ludwig's wrist, to try and pull him off, while the other pushed against the bar. He had forgotten his little brother was a lot bigger and a lot stronger than he was. Ludwig held on fast. Gilbert grit his teeth as the wood ground against his spine.

"You want to know _why_ I never come home?" Ludwig fumed, cold fire blazing in his icy blue eyes. "It's because of _this!_ Because of you! Because you don't know when to stop! You will never get it through your head that it was _my choice!_ And I'm sorry for every day of my life that I did it. I was an idiot, okay? But I did it. I _chose_ it. Me. Not him. So if you're going to be angry with anyone, be angry with me."

Ludwig finally let go.

Gilbert spluttered and coughed as he regained breath. "But he didn't stop you," he panted, his voice ragged. "I can never forgive him for that. He didn't stop you."

"That's because I wouldn't let him. It was my choice. I had to finish it." Ludwig straightened up, heading the direction Roderich had taken.

"Fine. Go after him. Like you always do. Take his side. He isn't even family!" Gilbert shouted.

The kitchen doors swung shut. Ludwig sank against a wall and blew out his cheeks. He never wanted to come back here. Why, _why_ did he listen to Ivan?

"Drink," a familiar voice said. "You need it."

Ludwig looked up to see Lovino standing in front of him, holding out a flask of vodka, uncapped. Without even thinking, Ludwig snatched it and knocked it back.

He noticed Roderich sitting at the island in the middle of the kitchen, a faraway look on his face as he sipped an espresso. Ludwig handed the flask back to Lovino and made his way over, the alcohol already starting to buzz in his veins. He opened his mouth to speak, but Roderich shook his head.

"There's no need to apologize, Ludwig," Roderich said in a hollow voice. "It's nothing I haven't heard before."

Ludwig sank onto a stool opposite the Austrian, hands hanging awkwardly between his knees.

"I shouldn't have come back - "

"Don't say that. I'm happy you're here - "

"But I feel like - I don't know - like I always manage to...p-provoke things. Between you two."

"It's not you, Ludwig. It's not you or anything you've done. Now," Roderich said, finishing his espresso, "if you'll excuse me, I must go backstage. I have a few last minutes notes to go over with the girls before tonight's curtain. Though you're more than welcome to join me if you wish." His tone had changed. No longer despondent, his voice echoed with the business-like authority Ludwig once knew.

Ludwig stood and followed Roderich, hoping his reunion with Antonio and Feliks would at least turn out better.

It did.

Antonio let out a gasp of surprise the moment he saw Ludwig. The girls' chatter died away as every head turned to see who had entered. The older ones were on him in an instant, each clamoring for a hug, a kiss, until his clothes smelled of their heady perfume and his cheeks were smeared with lipstick.

Ludwig noticed, through the flurry of wigs and hands, a lot of the old line up had been replaced. Half of the faces he didn't recognize, though a few seemed to recognize him, or at least knew who he was. Eduard was gone. But Feliks and Antonio were still there - would probably still be there until they were too old to walk. Ludwig smiled his appreciation at all of them - until his eyes caught on his old vanity. It looked just as he had left it - wig on the stand, pots of make up arranged just so, the small layer of powder collected around the jars telling of their recent use.

"He's not as good as you were," Roderich said, following Ludwig's gaze. The girls had gone back to their dressing, the din of gossip filling the room once again.

Ludwig felt Roderich watching him, but he kept his gaze fixed on the wig. He did not know what he was expecting. He half thought the Austrian would propose he take up his old role as Lola, but Roderich sniffed and lit a cigarette.

"The crowds are decent, at least. Nowhere near like before, but decent."

Ludwig felt himself nod. Roderich was still watching him, but he refused to catch the Austrian's eye.

After a few moments, Roderich cleared his throat, getting everyone's attention. He began making his announcements and Ludwig felt now was as good a time as any to leave. He was not a part of that world anymore.

Ludwig drifted back through the stage wing, down the side stairs, and past the bar. Customers were beginning to trickle in. He looked at his watch, surprised to see it was dinner time. Knowing that Ivan had most likely wanted to meet him here, he found a table near the door. A waiter bustled over to take his order. Ludwig wasn't anywhere close to being hungry, but he also didn't know how long Ivan intended for him to wait, so he ordered a soup and a beer.

It was eight o'clock by the time Ivan arrived. Ludwig watched with a dull look, bordering on morose, as Roderich played the introduction to the first act. He brought his beer to his lips, about to take a sip, when he realized there was nothing left but the foamy dregs clinging to the sides. It was his third one. He set the glass down with a grunt as Ivan made his way over.

"A bit different being in the audience instead of on stage, no?" Ivan said with a genial smile.

Ludwig shrugged. "It's all the same to me."

Ivan set his mouth into an even line as he took a seat. "Are you hungry?"

Ludwig shook his head. "I just want to drink."

Ivan watched him a moment, his expression edging concern as Ludwig signaled the waiter for another round.

"This is your last one," said the waiter. "Bartender says you're cutoff."

Ludwig picked his head up, glaring down at his brother. Gilbert folded his arms and smirked in return.

"Fine," Ludwig ground out. He picked up the glass and started nursing it.

On stage, the final act drew to a close. Ludwig noted Roderich had finally given into Antonio's suggestion about "Pirate Jenny." It was a big ensemble number. Every girl was on stage. Though Ludwig noticed Antonio was not the expected titular role. That had been given to one of the new faces. Ludwig sipped his beer and joined in the applause as the girls took their bow. The music switched to a slower tempo and Ludwig felt a hand on his knee.

"Let's dance," Ivan said.

"But I haven't even finished my drink," Ludwig pouted.

"It will be here when you get back. Now come on." Ivan pulled the younger blonde to his feet. Ludwig stumbled, tripping over his chair and falling into Ivan.

"Your brother's right," the Russian said, standing him up. "You _have_ had enough."

"Mmm. I think hell just froze over, if you're agreeing with Gilbert," Ludwig said, giving Ivan a playful nudge.

He took Ivan's hand, leading him down to the dance floor. Ludwig threw his arms around Ivan's shoulders, looking around at the other couples as they danced. For a weeknight, it was fairly busy. Ludwig recalled what Roderich had said in the dressing room - about the crowds being "decent" on the weekends. He wondered if tonight was just a fluke and if what Roderich had told him was true - that the crowds were not what they used to be when he'd been Lola. _Why_ would he say that, though? Was he just making conversation or was it something else? Was he...trying to spark some curiosity? He had seen Ludwig staring at the wig and had made that remark - about the new Lola, not being as good...

Was Roderich trying to get him to come back?

Ivan mentioned Roderich had been asking about him...

And what about Ivan? Hadn't he been telling Ludwig he should go back to Berlin? He had just as much a vested interest in The Supper Club as Roderich. Were they both trying to get him to return? To be Lola? To bring in the crowds, the money...?

 _He's a greedy son of a bitch, Ludwig._

No. No, no, no! Ludwig refused to believe it. He was reading too much into things. Letting recent events rile him up. And he may have had a bit too much to drink. He wasn't thinking straight. Yes. That was it...

His dismay must have shown on his face, for next thing he knew, Ivan was suggesting they sit back down. Ludwig shook his head, insisting he felt fine.

A new song started. Some couples left the dance floor, going back to their tables. Ludwig spotted Antonio near the stage, looking somewhat lost, unsure if he should dance or mingle. Ludwig excused himself and went over.

"May I?" he said with a comical bow.

"You cheeky little thing!" Antonio scolded, playfully smacking his hand. "Well. Go on, then." He held out his hand. Ludwig took it and kissed it and led him out onto the dance floor.

"You were wonderful tonight," Ludwig said.

"Oh, honey," Antonio said, cupping a hand on Ludwig's cheek. "Thank you for that. And for...this. For a moment, it felt like my first night here. I didn't know what to do!" His lips spread into a smile, but his penciled brows knit in a sad expression. "...Ah, well," he sighed. "It was bound to happen."

"What?"

Antonio cocked a dubious brow. "I'm _old,_ honey. _I_ know it. _They_ know it," he nodded his head at the audience. "...I just wish...it had taken more _time_ , you know? But everything changes so fast. I was in the spotlight one minute, and then the next...background."

"I'm sure it's just a bad season - "

Antonio shook his head. "That's sweet of you to say. But I can't kid myself. It's not like I was going to be doing this forever. It's time for something different, Ludwig. For me. And for Lovi. He deserves something better."

"What are you going to do?"

Antonio let his gaze fall. "...Feliciano has offered to let Lovi take over one of the family vineyards. And Lovi accepted. His parents aren't too happy, but Feliciano - "

"Feliciano _is_ the favorite," Ludwig said with a grin.

Antonio looked up and laughed. "He is!"

Ludwig leaned in, kissing Antonio on the cheek. "I'm happy for you."

"Thank you, _mijo._ "

Antonio drew him into a hug.

They held each other until the song ended.

.

Later that night, as he slept on the couch, he was startled awake by a shuffling in the hall. Thinking for a moment someone had broken in, Ludwig cracked open an eye and listened. Moonlight streamed in through the living room window, throwing its pale light over the couch and onto the rug. Slowly, he picked his head up, listening hard. The steps sounded uneven, as if the person had a limping gait. Ludwig exhaled a relieved breath, realizing it was only Roderich. He buried his head into the pillow, trying to get back to sleep, when he heard Roderich shuffle into the living room.

Ludwig opened one eye again. Roderich stood staring down at him, one hand clutched in the collar of his robe, the other wrapped around his middle.

Roderich seemed unaware Ludwig was awake. He limped to the far side of the couch, his back to Ludwig.

Ludwig picked his head up, watching him fully now.

Roderich bent down, picking up a corner of the blanket that had fallen, and tucking around Ludwig's feet. He turned, giving a start when he saw Ludwig looking at him.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's all right," Ludwig said.

Roderich sat on the piano bench watching Ludwig, his hand still clutching his robe. He looked muted in the moon's cold glow, his colors blending together in muddy blacks and grays. The clock on the mantle ticked away the minutes.

"...Roderich. I'm all right. Go back to bed," Ludwig said. The silent staring had become more than irksome.

Roderich pulled himself to his feet. "I can't sleep," he said before disappearing into the darkened hall.

Ludwig let his head fall back onto the pillow with a huff. The last thing he heard before drifting off to sleep was sound of a glass being filled in the dining room and the snap of a lighter.

.

.

.

* * *

 ** _A/N:_** _So, for anyone new here and who hasn't read 'Lost Generation' here's a bit of background: Roderich owns a gay/drag cabaret called The Supper Club. Ludwig used to perform there and it caused some...tension...in Roderich's relationship with Gilbert (not to mention the fact Gil is a supporter of the NSDAP...but his involvement won't get_ _ **too**_ _serious. He just kind of jumped on the band wagon and went for a ride). And Ivan is a gangster with a heart of gold ;)_

 ** _Solnyshko_** _\- what Ivan calls Ludwig. A Russian term of endearment meaning "little sun."_

 _The Bauhaus School was founded in 1919 by Walter Gropius. It strove to unite industrial production, art, and design. It drew on the Arts and Crafts movement, as well as Expressionism and Constructivist ideas developed in Russia, thereby rejecting European "classical" art academia by championing a rational and scientific approach to art. All of this, of course, the Nazis viewed as repugnant, believing the modernist ideas the Bauhaus represented were part of the "Jewish-Marxist conception of 'art,'" decrying it as "degenerate," the design it produced "un-Germanic." In 1932, the NSDAP gained control of the Dessau Council - one of the Bauhaus' major sources of funding - and closed the school in September._

 _From a historical perspective, it seems any time a major political body views centers of academic learning as a threat, some shit's about to go down. Of course, Ivan knows this. I have a head canon about him being a huge - I mean spectacularly HUGE - nerd for history...he's read every history book he could get his hands on - has a room in his flat that is nothing but floor to ceiling stacked with books - and his family fled the first revolution in 1905, so he's pretty skilled at recognizing patterns (the sixth sense Ludwig mentioned)._

 _"Pirate Jenny" is a song from Kurt Weill's "Threepenny Opera"_

 _Chapter title is from "The Waste Land" by T.S. Eliot_

 _Thanks for reading!_


	2. Chapter 2 - Such Deliberate Disguises

**_A/N:_** _More Italian for Beginners!_

 _-Dai: equivalent of "Oh come on" or "Stop it." (Sounds like "die" in English o_O )_

 _-È vero: "It's true."_

 _-Io sarò con te: "I will be with you."_

* * *

 **.**

 **Chapter 2 - Such Deliberate Disguises**

 **.**

* * *

"Why can't I just move in with you?" Ludwig sulked.

Ivan eyed him over the rim of his cup. "...I don't think that would be wise. Do you?"

Ludwig shrugged, moodily pushing the crumbs leftover from his torte around his plate with the edge of his fork.

They were having a late brunch at Cafe Wien on Kurfürstendamm. The autumn air was mild, the sun warm as it shone down on their shoulders. Ludwig had wanted to eat inside, but Ivan insisted they take a table on the sidewalk. The few times Ludwig had been to the cafe with Roderich and Gilbert, they had sat outside too. Ludwig never liked it. The crowds were always too noisy and the snatches of conversation as people passed by too distracting. Ivan always said crowded cafes were the best place for what he liked to call "intimate conversation," as the people were often too absorbed in their own business to notice anyone else's. Ludwig supposed he had a point. Still. He would have preferred somewhere quieter.

Ludwig rested his elbows on the table, pressing his fingertips to his temples. Ivan sipped his coffee.

"Still not sleeping?" he said.

"No," Ludwig grumbled. "Every single night, I can hear him shuffling around the flat. And then he'll come into the living room and - _stare -_ at me. And he and Gilbert just...I don't even know. It's been two weeks and I can't _take_ it anymore, Ivan." His hands fell to the table, rattling the plates and silverware. " _Can't_ I move in with you?"

"Is that what you want?"

Ludwig's mouth fell open. His brow knit, incredulous. "Did I not just say - "

"No. You didn't," Ivan said evenly. "You only want to move out because of your brother and Roderich. Not because you want to be with me."

"What?" Ludwig balked. "How can you even say that? You were always saying how, in Dessau, we never got to spend time together because I was busy with school and - "

"Is that what you want?" Ivan said again.

"What I...? Yeah. Sure. It's what I want." Ludwig slouched back in his seat, folding his arms and heaving his square shoulders up and down.

The corners of Ivan's lips twitched. " _Solnyshko._ You really are a horrible liar."

Ludwig sat up, about to protest, but Ivan shook his head. "Even if you were being truthful, I still would not allow it. Not with my lifestyle. The things I do." Ivan's hands went to his cuffs, adjusting the fit. The sun glinted off one of the cufflinks. He wore the molar ones today. "You are too honest for that world, Ludwig. If anything should happen to you," Ivan said, "I would never forgive myself."

Ludwig curled his hand around his cup of coffee, Ivan's fingers a hair's breadth from his. Ever since he had returned to Berlin, ever since the Nazis had closed his school, Ivan had stopped showing any signs of physical affection in public. For all anyone knew, they were just two friends or business associates out together. Ludwig understood his reason for caution, but oftentimes he wished things could go back to the way they were. Ivan's hand was so close. He wanted to take it, to feel the press of the palm he knew so well. Ridges and contours, a map for his fingers to read. A map of Ivan. But a swift glance at the people around him reminded him why he shouldn't. They were changing, just like everything else. Faces that once held no judgement for his kind grew more guarded every day. How much longer would his love be allowed?

Ludwig felt Ivan's thumb brush the side of his hand. He looked up, eyes locking on Ivan, searching for some clue, some reassurance that everything would turn out okay. But the Russian had none to offer. Ludwig's stomach suddenly felt hollow despite having just eaten.

"Come on," Ivan sighed. "I need a word with Roderich."

Ludwig's face blanched. "What, you're not going to tell him what I said, are you? About him and -"

Ivan smiled as he got to his feet. "No. I prefer to keep personal matters separate from business as much as possible. But unfortunately, your brother and Roderich make that difficult sometimes." He paid for their meal and they made their way over to the awaiting black car.

The driver took them to The Supper Club. Ludwig said his farewell to Ivan at the entrance then walked the two blocks up to his flat, hoping to catch a few hours' sleep in the quiet of the afternoon.

He collapsed on the couch, exhaustion leeching out of him and spilling onto the cushions. Ludwig closed his eyes with a sigh, feeling himself start to drift as his body unburdened itself of its need for sleep.

His peace was short-lived, broken by a pillow smacking his face and his brother's ensuing cackle.

"Rise and shine, brother of mine!"

"Dammit, Gil," Ludwig growled. He grudgingly sat up, knowing there was no hope of sleep as long as Gilbert was home.

"What? It's the middle of the day. You should be out and about instead of moping around here like you've been."

"I'm not _moping_ ," Ludwig said. He threw the pillow back at his brother for emphasis. It landed with a sad _fwump_ at Gilbert's feet. Ludwig frowned. His sleep deprivation was not only affecting his mood but apparently his coordination as well.

Gilbert smirked and went into the kitchen. "Well if you're not moping, what _are_ you doing?"

"What does that mean?" Ludwig stood and shuffled after his brother, leaning against the counter.

"Exactly what I said, genius." Gilbert sat at the table. He lit a cigarette and scanned the front page of the newspaper. "What are you gonna do, now that you're home? School? Work? Your choices are wide open, kid."

"...I suppose I haven't - haven't really thought about it." The realization hit him the moment he said it. He _had not_ thought about what he was going to do because there had been nothing to think about. His plans had not accounted for something like this happening. How could they? How could _he_ have known a political entity would view a _school_ \- something so benign - as a threat?

Ludwig pressed his fingers to his forehead. His head was hurting, and it wasn't just from the lack of sleep. He made a pot of coffee, hoping to stave off the needling headache that started, he was sure, the moment he arrived in Berlin.

"Jeez. You and - you're both addicted to that shit," Gilbert said, glancing up.

"You drink it, too."

"Yeah. But not as much as you. Or Specs."

"I can't sleep. And apparently he can't either." Ludwig slid into a chair, hand curled around the handle of a steaming cup of coffee.

Gilbert eyed his brother with a slanting look.

"What? You haven't heard him pacing?" Ludwig said.

Gilbert shrugged, going back to his paper.

Ludwig clicked his tongue. "You only _live_ with him, Gil."

"So? He's has had his bouts of insomnia before. It's nothing new."

"But this has been every single night for the past two weeks. And God knows how long before that. It's driving me crazy!"

Gilbert licked his lips, taking a drag from his cigarette.

Ludwig watched his brother, waiting for him to say something or show even a hint of concern. A hundred thoughts buzzed through his head. He remembered when he was younger thinking he lived with two ghosts whenever Roderich and Gil had had a quarrel. They would not speak to each other for weeks, lifelessly drifting about their days until they miraculously snapped out of it and came back to life. Ludwig vaguely wondered if his return coincided with another one of their spats, but deep down he had a feeling it was something else.

"How long have things been this way? Between you two?" he asked quietly.

Gilbert's eyes narrowed as they flicked up to Ludwig's. He blinked languidly, letting his gaze drift back down to his newspaper with an affected indifference.

"Oh, look. There's a firm in need of a draftsman."

Ludwig puffed out a humorless laugh and crossed his arms. "I don't believe this - "

"Look Lutz, I don't feel like havin' a fucking heart to heart moment right now, okay? Whatever's going on, it's - he brought it on himself, all right?"

Ludwig shook his head. "You are _such_ a piece of work sometimes. The only person you ever dare help is yourself!"

The look on Gilbert's face hardened. He ground out his cigarette and stood. He took the newspaper and slammed it down in front of Ludwig, making the younger blonde jump slightly in his seat.

"There!" Gilbert fumed, finger jabbing at a job ad. "But I guess that's just me, helping _my_ self again! And if you're so concerned about _Roderich,_ why don't you talk to _him_ instead of just bitching about everything. I am _sick_ of you two making me out to be the bad guy. All I've ever tried to do was fucking _help!_ But you don't see it that way. And neither does he. So...that's that. Enjoy your life together." Gilbert gave a mock salute and disappeared around the door frame.

Ludwig got to his feet and followed. "Where are you going?"

"Meeting," Gilbert grunted, pulling on a jacket, his back to Ludwig. "And you can stop looking at me like that," he said over his shoulder.

"Like what?"

"Like you and Roderich always do, whenever I go. Like I'm an idiot. Like I'm only doing this to spite you, or..." Gilbert raked a hand through his hair. He shook his head with a sigh, then turned to his brother, the look on his face earnest. "Things could be better. Much, much better."

"And what's so wrong with the way they are now?" Ludwig shot back with a lifted chin.

"Look around, Lutz. Look at our country. Hell, look at this _city_. It's not what it used to be. We've been taken advantage of too long. We've borne the blame over something we didn't even start! I want back the Germany _I_ remember. The one I fought for. The one that wasn't afraid to hold its head up high. It's disgraceful, what we've been reduced to."

"...You really think they can make everything better again?"

Gilbert shrugged. "I-I don't know. I _hope_ \- "

Ludwig shook his head. "Gil. Please don't. Don't go. You're hanging onto something I don't think you'll ever get back. Regardless of their promises. They closed my school. If they saw it as a threat, how do you think they'll see people like _us?"_

Gilbert puffed out a laugh. "And how did you draw that conclusion? Did your Russian help you out?"

"I came to it on my own."

Gilbert looked at his brother. The lines of his face hardened, replacing the laugh that had been there moments before with a stubborn determination. Ludwig knew that look. And he knew what it meant. There was no stopping his brother.

"Well. Guess I'll see you later, kid," Gilbert said. The door opened and closed behind him.

Ludwig's jaw reflexively clenched. He went back into the kitchen and sank into a chair, absently sliding his brother's forgotten newspaper over to him. The ad Gilbert had shown him earlier drew his attention, and he began to read.

.

Later that afternoon, Ludwig went down to The Supper Club more so out of habit rather than any actual desire to go. After having spent the majority of his younger years backstage with the girls while his brother worked, the place really had become a second home.

He had phoned Irina before he left, having realized, somewhat guiltily, he had not seen her since he'd come back. She had kept in contact with him while he was away, sending him a letter at least once a month. Ludwig knew if he failed to respond to even one, he could expect his mailbox to be flooded with a slew of envelopes, all from Irina. She was nothing if not a force to be reckoned with. The thought made him smile as he dialed her number.

On the third ring, a woman answered, but it wasn't Irina; it was her mother. Irina was still at work. Ludwig stammered out an apology for having disturbed anyone and hung up the receiver with a sigh, resigning himself to spending another night at The Supper Club. He had hoped Irina could have provided some kind of distraction.

Ludwig checked his face in the mirror before leaving, wondering vaguely if Feliks would have anything for the bags under his eyes.

.

Ivan was at the bar, nursing a beer.

"You can't keep putting it off, Roderich."

Roderich shook his head, looking down at the open ledger between them. "Not yet. Business is still good, despite that last incident."

"I'll do it myself, if I have to. This tastes like shit, by the way," Ivan said, pulling a face and sliding the beer away.

"My old distributor went out of business. It was all I could get on short notice."

"I have a contact, if - "

Roderich gave a dubious laugh. "And what would the mark up be on that, hm? How much of a percentage? I would like at least _part_ of my business to remain legal, thank you."

Ivan's face was impassive. "You cannot allow even a little thing to slip."

Roderich huffed. "Yes. Fine. I'll find someone else. In the meantime, we'll just - " He stopped himself mid-sentence. Someone was approaching the bar.

Ludwig.

The young blonde's brow knit a fraction of a second at the agitated look on Roderich's face and the apparent unconcern on Ivan's.

When Ivan saw him, he rose from his seat to kiss Ludwig's cheek.

Ludwig watched over Ivan's shoulder as Roderich closed his ledger and locked it in the safe under the bar. He smoothed back his hair and adjusted his glasses as he straightened up.

"I don't suppose you've seen your brother, have you?" Roderich asked, picking up a rag and wiping down the bar top. "He's late for his shift."

"...He mentioned something about a meeting," Ludwig said, taking a seat.

"Ah," was all Roderich said, though Ludwig could see the clench of the Austrian's jaw as he cleaned. "Well then, if it's not too much of an imposition," he continued, his face pinched, "would you mind looking after the bar? Just for a little while? It's not terribly hard. You know how to pull a tap, right? And where the wines are? There's a cocktail sheet on top of the safe and - "

"Roderich," Ludwig cut in. "It's no problem. I think I can handle it."

The Austrian's face visibly relaxed for a second only to tense back up at the appearance of a man with white-blonde hair.

Gilbert sauntered behind the bar. "No need to worry, boss. I showed up."

Ludwig felt himself bracing, ready for another row - except none came.

All of the energy that had possessed Roderich earlier seemed to drain out of him. He shrank away, a hollow man, bumping against the back counter. He uttered a terse "Excuse me," and left for the kitchen.

Ivan shook his head and sighed. "I guess our meeting is over. Finish this." He slid his half-empty beer over to Ludwig, then stood, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Will you be here later?"

"I don't know. Probably not," Ludwig said, eyes flicking over to his brother. Gilbert was pretending to occupy himself with re-stocking wine glasses, but Ludwig could see the glint of his odd colored eyes watching them.

Ivan followed Ludwig's glance and smirked. "Then I will see you tomorrow." He leaned in for a kiss. Ludwig matched his movements a moment too late. He tried to smile as they pulled away, but there was a weight in Ivan's eyes that had not been there before.

Ivan gathered up his jacket and left. Ludwig watched him disappear through the lobby doors, then turned around in his seat to find his brother studying him with a strange look.

"Oh, come on." Ludwig folded his arms over his chest. "We've been together two years, Gil. I think it's time you drop whatever grudge you're holding against him."

"No. That's not what I - " Gilbert huffed. "Look, all this time, I always thought..."

"What?"

Gilbert chewed his lip and shook his head, wishing he could take back what he'd said. He busied himself wiping down the bar, keeping his eyes fixed on the rag.

" _What_ , Gil?"

"...I guess I always thought that...you were just kind of going along with - things. But...seeing you now, with - him - I'm not so sure."

Ludwig's brow knit. He reached for the beer Ivan had left.

"You're different. With him," Gilbert said, looking up from his cleaning. "It's not like when you and Feliciano - "

Ludwig made a disparaging sound, taking a pull from the bottle.

Gilbert straightened up, folding his arms over his chest. "Has he figured it out yet?"

Ludwig shrugged a shoulder, half indifferent and half wishing his brother would get to the point.

"That you're pretending," Gilbert said.

Ludwig pressed his lips into a thin line. His eyes narrowed. "You're one to talk," he hissed.

"Yeah. You're right. But I already know how fucked up I am, Ludwig. And I...I just want you to be careful. Think about what you're doing. As much as I hate to say it, he - Ivan - cares for you. I never realized it - I didn't _want_ to - until now. You're the only person who can melt through that mask of a face he wears."

Ludwig finished the beer. He held the bottle loosely in his fingers, letting it dangle between his legs. He suddenly felt as if he were made of air. As if his body had vanished and his essence had been left floating there on that barstool. He didn't like that feeling. He gripped the bottle tighter, wanting to feel something solid and substantial, but the glass was cold and shapeless in his hands.

"...Don't throw it away," someone said. His brother's voice. It echoed in the air, seeming at once too far away and too close.

"What?" Ludwig heard himself say. He felt like he was shouting under water.

"Ivan," Gilbert ground out.

Ludwig picked his head up, the name bringing back a memory of hands. He ran a thumb over his own palm, tracing the lines, but his map was different from Ivan's.

"Don't - " Gilbert started then stopped. He seemed to be struggling with something. "Don't throw his feelings away."

"I'm not," Ludwig said.

"...Then, what _are_ you doing?"

Ludwig shook his head. "I...I don't know. I just - " His voice caught in his throat. He tried to swallow it down but it grew into an ugly lump. The corners of his eyes burned. He jumped off the barstool and dashed up to the lobby doors, throwing them open with such force they banged off the wall. He made it to the men's room just as two thick tears scorched down either cheek.

Ludwig turned on the tap and splashed his face. The cold water sent a shock through his system, resetting everything back to factory standards. No more tears, no more hitching breaths. No more anything. Just...Ludwig.

He caught his reflection in the mirror - eyes like winter, cheekbones sharp enough to cut, a severe mouth and haircut to match, and beyond that...

What else was there, really?

Again that hollow feeling. He was no longer made of air. He had shape, definition, but he wasn't solid; he was a shell. (He was the moon, always and forever reflecting the light of the sun).

 _Then, what_ are _you doing?_

Ludwig gripped the sink, his fingertips growing numb. What _was_ he doing?

Trying to feel something real. It was that simple. It was all he had ever tried to do. But what was real anymore? There he stood, in the middle of the men's room in a cabaret whose girls were guys under all that makeup and lace. A world that so many found _un_ real - a fantasy, a fleeting entertainment of boys in dresses.

And he had been one. A boy in a dress. A fantasy. Did that make him unreal too?

The door to the bathroom opened. Two men walked in. Ludwig startled and straightened, hurriedly drying his hands on the towel and leaving before seeing the strange looks he just knew he was getting.

Out in the lobby, Ludwig's head swam with half-formed thoughts as the sound of Roderich's piano reached up from just beyond the double doors. The notes pounded, each a nail in his head. He could not concentrate.

People brushed past him, laughing, giggling, caught up in their own worlds. The doors to the dining room swung open and shut. Ludwig stumbled through them, probably looking like a drunkard, though he was perfectly sober. The music and noise had dialed his headache up past the point of being tolerable, but there was no remedy for it. He went down to the bar, hoping his brother wouldn't give him shit about ordering, but Gilbert's attention was elsewhere. He was staring at Roderich with a look Ludwig couldn't quite place. Wistful, maybe...

Ludwig pushed past the bar, heading for the kitchen and wanting to get away from the crowd without leaving the club just yet.

Lovino had the alley door propped open with a crate. He leaned against it, smoking, and talking in Italian to someone sitting at the kitchen island. One of the new waiters, Ludwig guessed.

Lovino glanced up with a smirk when he saw Ludwig. The person at the island turned around, surprising Ludwig when he recognized the face.

"A-Antonio?"

He was dressed in men clothes - a white button up shirt, khaki colored vest, and a tie with jade green accents finished it off, the color bringing out his eyes. His hair was parted to the side and hug loosely about his face, no longer kept in place by a dozen bobby pins. Not an ounce of makeup could be seen.

The Spaniard nodded with a shy grin. "I don't think you've ever seen me, looking like this."

Ludwig shook his head. He had seen Antonio before shows and after, and every time the Spaniard had at least some part of his costume still on - whether it was makeup or pins in his hair or his black silk dressing robe - he always retained some measure of femininity. It was easy for Ludwig to forget Antonio was a man.

"He look better. This way," Lovino said. He flicked his cigarette into the alley and slouched over.

" _Dai!"_ Antonio pouted.

 _"È vero,"_ Lovino shrugged, then looked up at Ludwig and continued in broken German: "He don't want to leave. But we go. End of month. Just in time for last harvest."

Antonio's cheeks burned bright crimson. "I'm still so nervous. I don't think I've ever been this anxious about anything before. It's silly of me, I suppose. But I've lived here so long."

"All you need," Lovino said. "Right here. _Io sarò con te."_ He placed his hand over Antonio's and gave it a light squeeze, his ever-present scowl softening.

Antonio flushed an even deeper red. He smiled and kissed Lovino's hand.

Lovino cleared his throat and looked up at Ludwig. "Your brother say you need job. You want this back?" he asked, gesturing to the apron Ludwig used to wear.

"Lovi!" Antonio chastised, but Ludwig shook his head and puffed out a laugh.

"You keep it."

Lovino grinned sharply then went over to the sink as a waiter bustled in with a tray of dirty dishes.

Antonio sighed and reached for Ludwig's hand. "The world feels like it's spinning too fast, _mijo._ But I guess things have always been that way. Funny, I don't think I ever used to notice before. Ah, well...maybe that's what happens when you get older." He gave a small laugh. Ludwig tried to grin in return. The feeling he'd had earlier crept back upon him. Like he wasn't even there, and the world - everything around him - was nothing but air. Insubstantial.

But Antonio...

He had to, _had to_ hold on to Antonio.

Somehow, as if sensing his thoughts, Antonio stood, taking Ludwig's face in his hands, his expression suddenly serious. "Keep your feet on the ground, _mijo._ You understand?"

Ludwig nodded and swallowed past the lump re-forming in his throat. "I will."

Antonio smiled and kissed his forehead. Ludwig closed his eyes, imprinting that kiss with every word, every gesture, every night backstage - every memory he'd had of Antonio, the surrogate mother of his second home.

Antonio let go. Ludwig felt himself detach and drift back out into the dining room.

Men and women danced, articulating desires in perpendicular rhythm. Clandestine flirtations blossomed with a glance, a look, later to be sealed with a kiss and forgotten the next day. Impermanent.

The room swirled around him in color and sound - a painted canvas, brought to life by fingers stained blue and green and black and gold...a laugh like the sun, and skin -

 _No._

Ludwig pushed the memory away. Those fingers were not his to hold. The laugh, nothing but an echo. It was time to go home.

.

The following day, he answered the want ad from the paper and landed the job as draftsman. On a whim, he called Irina again, explained everything to her, then suggested they go and celebrate. Irina indulged him despite being taken aback by his impulsiveness.

Ludwig smiled at her over his drinks, but it wasn't the alcohol giving his eyes a glaze.

He should have been happy. This was what people do - what they were supposed to do. A normal life with a normal job. Drinks with friends.

He _should_ have been happy...

But the hollow feeling remained.

.

.

.

 ** _A/N(2):_** _More Roddy and Gil next chapter, I promise! (It was going to be in this one, but I felt like I needed to split it up, sorry.) Chapter title is from "Hollow Men" by T.S. Eliot_


	3. Chapter 3 - Out of the Dead Land

**_A/N_** _: Negermusik, a perjorative term used by the Nazis referring to the jazz and swing musical styles and performances by African-American musicians. Though jazz and swing were largely accepted during the Weimar Republic, the music style still created tension, causing protests among some right-wing nationalist groups. In 1930, Wilhelm Frick, the Reich's newly appointed Minister of the Interior and Education for Thuringia made a decree called "Against the Negro Culture — For Our German Heritage." In 1932, the national government, under Franz von Papen, pandered to the Nazis by banning all public performances by black musicians._

 _Chapter title: T.S. Eliot "The Waste Land"_

 _Musical inspiration: Florence + the Machine, "Ship to Wreck"_

 _Robert Stolz, "Die ganze Welt ist himmelblau"_

 _Paul Godwin Tanz-Orchester, "Fräulein, pardon"_

 _Josephine Baker, "Blue Skies"_

 _Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

 **.**

 **Chapter 3 - Out of the Dead Land**

 **.**

* * *

Roderich Edelstein was under attack. Bullets whizzed overhead. Artillery screamed and crashed around him, shaking the ground with gut wrenching force. Roderich's stomach turned over. He was going to be sick. He clamped his hands over his ears, eyes squeezing shut, wanting to block out all sound, wanting the earth to stop moving.

Another blast rocked the ground and the world turned on its head. Everything was falling away, falling up. Roderich could not hold on any longer.

He retched as the mountain disgorged its insides. Snow and dirt and rock exploded in the air. Roderich cowered in his trench, knees pressed in the putrid emesis that had been his sad excuse for a breakfast. Something hit him. His body went numb, his nerves searching for the place where he'd been shot, waiting for the hot gush of blood….

"Goddammit!" a voice growled beside him. It was Beilschmidt, the braggart sergeant from the Eastern Front. "What the hell are you doing, Edelstein!? Get your ass up and out of here!"

"I — b-but I'm — I'm hit," Roderich dazedly replied.

"No you're not. Up!" Beilschmidt grabbed his coat and pulled him into a crouch. "If the cold doesn't kill ya, that artillery sure as hell will. Now, follow me."

Beilschmidt snaked his way along the trench, body bent in two. Roderich followed, keeping close to the wall of earth and snow.

"Where are we going?"

"We're pulling back. Just as soon as we — aw hell!" A volley of screams ripped through the air. Before Roderich could even fully to fathom what was happening, Beilschmidt had thrown himself on top of the Austrian, shielding him as the ground quaked from mortar rounds.

When the firing stopped, an eerie silence followed in its wake. Roderich was pressed against the bottom of the trench. The cold clawed its way through his uniform. Beilschmidt's breath was warm against his cheek. Roderich shivered. All of his senses were on high alert, his body tense, ready for any sign of the next barrage. None came. Beilschmidt sat up, flinging himself back against the trench wall, and lit a cigarette. Roderich joined him, doing his best to collect himself. Around them was scattered the remains of the upheaved mountain, their snow trench nothing but an earthen black mar. A crater had opened where Roderich cowered minutes ago.

"I — I think you just saved my life."

Beilschmidt laughed. "I'll take that as your way of saying thank you."

But Roderich did not see the humor. His hands began to shake. An irrational anger came over him. "W-why did you do that? You could have been killed! _Why_ did you do that!?"

Beilschmidt's lips twisted into a bitter smirk. His eyes darkened. "Better me than you, Specs. No one back home will care if I die."

.

Roderich awoke with a start, heart pounding in his chest. He couldn't remember falling asleep. All he remembered was his body finding the bed, like it had so many nights before. He flung the covers away and sat up. Sweat drenched the back of his nightshirt. The shapes and shadows of his room were indiscernible. Every time he blinked, he saw nothing but craggy rock and snow. He reached for his glasses on the bedside table and shoved them on his nose, needing a drink or a smoke or both.

He brought his feet down, the cold bare floor making him shudder more than perhaps necessary. He felt his hands begin to shake as he pushed himself up to stand.

Roderich felt his way along in the darkness, squeezing his eyes shut every time a shadow made him jump and start, looking too much like a body crouched in snow.

All was still in the flat, unnerving him even more. He paused outside Gilbert's room. The door was closed. Meant he was home from work. Roderich lingered a moment, pressing his ear to the door, hoping to catch so much as a breath from beyond the barrier that separated them. His fingers brushed the wood, curling into a fist as if to knock. Roderich's breath caught in his throat, his throat dry as he swallowed. He blinked; lowering his hand, he drew back and continued down the hall.

The couch in the living room was empty. Ludwig was still out with Irina, and for once, Roderich was relieved. He turned on a small lamp and then the radio, turning the volume up and up until the music chased away all other thought.

.

.

.

The low hum of instruments echoed down the hall. Gilbert cracked one bleary eye open, thinking for a moment he was still at the club. He pressed his fingers to his eyes, rubbing away sleep, and rolled over with a groan. It had to be around midnight. Why did Lutz think _now_ was a good time to listen to the radio?

Gilbert squeezed his eyes shut and tried to get back to sleep, but he could not block out the sound filtering down the hall. He didn't mind Lutz listening to the radio. This was his house too. What he minded was the volume, and he intended to tell his brother just that as he pulled himself out of bed and made his way to the living room.

But it wasn't Ludwig sitting on the couch, listening to jazz loud enough to wake the neighbors.

It was Roderich. Sitting perched on the edge, hands clasped in a tight ball, a faraway look on his face.

Gilbert started when he saw the Austrian, but Roderich didn't notice, too lost in his own world.

Gilbert cautiously entered, edging over to the radio. Roderich did not even move or flinch. Wide eyes stared off into the distance, at something only he could see.

"Don't turn it off," Roderich said, his voice hollow. He blinked, seeming to come back to himself, and looked at Gilbert, brow knitting in supplication. "Please."

Gilbert turned the volume down. "Is this okay?"

Roderich nodded and looked at his hands.

"…I thought you were Lutz."

"He's still out with Irina."

"Ah. Right. Well, I guess I'll just…leave you to it, then."

Roderich reached for a cigarette and a box of matches on the coffee table.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gilbert watched as Roderich struck the match head over and over, hands shaking too violently to light it. Without a word, he took the matchbox from the pianist's trembling fingers and lit one. Roderich leaned in, touching tobacco to flame. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments. Gilbert could not remember the last time he had looked into those indigo eyes. A long buried affection tugged at his chest. He felt himself smile.

"Thank you," Roderich said.

"No problem." Gilbert shook out the match and tossed it into an ashtray.

Roderich exhaled a stream of smoke, his hands still shaking. He balled them into fists.

"Do you mind if I sit?" Gilbert asked.

Roderich shook his head.

Gilbert lowered himself onto the coffee table, afraid he might somehow chase Roderich away if he were to sit on the couch. But the pianist remained eerily still, save the trembling in his hands.

"What's with the late night concert?" Gilbert asked, indicating the radio.

"I couldn't sleep."

Gilbert cocked his head, waiting for Roderich to tell him more, but the pianist remained silent, taking an occasional drag from his cigarette and staring into the distance.

He watched Roderich a few minutes more before deciding the Austrian was too lost in his own head to come back to him. Gilbert drew a sharp breath and stood, making his way to the hall.

"Every time I close my eyes, I see that mountain," Roderich said.

Gilbert paused at the threshold, turning and leaning against the door frame. Roderich was looking at him now.

"You know what that's like, don't you. It may not be the mountain for you, or the war, but it's something."

Gilbert folded his arms, gaze falling to a spot on the rug. He prodded it with his toe. "...Yeah, I guess."

Roderich's eyes narrowed. He turned away, taking a final drag from his cigarette. "How do you not fear sleep?"

Gilbert pushed himself off the wall with a shrug, shuffling back over to the couch. "It's somethin' I've gotten used to, I suppose."

Roderich pressed his lips together tight and looked at his hands. His breath hitched in his throat. Heat welled behind his eyes. He squeezed them shut as two thick tears rolled down each cheek. He whipped his glasses off his face, pressing the back of his hand to either eye.

Roderich let go of a long breath, settling his glasses back on his nose. He looked at Gilbert, as if he somehow had an answer, but the blonde's face was inscrutable.

"C'mon," Gilbert said. "Let's get you to bed." He turned off the radio and went over to the couch, offering his hand to help Roderich up. The Austrian took it with a questioning look, but Gilbert's face remained expressionless as he made for Roderich's bedroom.

Gilbert turned on a small bedside lamp and began straightening the blankets Roderich had flung off during his fitful sleep.

Roderich settled into bed with a heavy breath, laying his glasses on the nightstand. Gilbert drew the blankets up and turned to go.

"Stay with me," Roderich said, catching Gilbert by the wrist.

Gilbert's shoulders tensed. The hand holding him relaxed. Gilbert turned, letting Roderich's hand slip into his. Long fingers twined round his, pulling him closer. "Is that what you want?"

"Yes."

Gilbert swallowed. "...All right."

He turned off the lamp and got into bed, curling onto his side, feeling the steady rewind of years as he settled into the worn divot on the mattress where he used to sleep. Familiar yet different. He closed his eyes, not really sleeping, waiting for Roderich's shallow breaths to even out into something lower and heavier, feeling as if this was happening to someone else and not him. He did not like that disconnect. Made him feel like a stranger in his own skin. He needed something to ground him, to make him feel in control.

When he was sure Roderich was sound asleep, Gilbert slipped out of bed and padded down the hall. He went to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee, telling himself the only reason he could not sleep was because Ludwig was not yet home. It was the only one of his thoughts that made sense, at any rate. He had felt the chasm starting to form between Roderich and himself long before the decision was made for Ludwig to become one of Roderich's stage acts, an effort to save the floundering cabaret that admittedly proved successful. No. The first ripples of the earth between them cracking happened before that, when he thought Ludwig's loyalties were turning away from him and turning towards Roderich. The chasm only deepened over time. But tonight (was it only just that night?) Roderich had been willing to cross it. And where was _he?_ Still on the other side, watching from on high? Or could he climb down and begin to cross it too?

.

.

.

Ludwig laughed the loudest. A rich baritone echoing over the ceaseless banter of jazz club patrons, the thumping bass and drum making him feel as light and loose as when he'd been Lola. The half a dozen shots of vodka also helped, leaving him with a blessed, all-over numbness. He did not see the look Irina had as she silently counted the glasses in front of him.

"I think it's time we went somewhere else," Irina said, laying her hand on top of his.

"Why? The music's good here," Ludwig said, shrugging her off and knocking back another shot.

Irina's eyes swept over the tightly packed club. No one seemed to be paying them any attention, despite Ludwig's loud volume.

"Dance with me," Ludwig said suddenly, taking her hand and starting to rise.

"W-what?" Irina spluttered, taken aback.

"Dance with me."

"But you can't dance," Irina chortled.

"So? It's kind of a slow song. C'mon. Please?" Ludwig pulled Irina to her feet, already humming the song and swaying to its rhythm. He held her close, looking into her eyes as he sang:

 _Die ganze Welt ist himmelblau_

 _Wenn ich in deine Augen schau'_

Irina's cheeks flushed as she giggled. "Stop," she said, smacking his chest playfully. "You don't have to do that with me."

"Do what?"

Irina's smile vanished as she fixed him with an even look. "You don't have to be Lola."

Sensation crept back in. Ludwig's neck began to prickle. "Sorry. I thought we were just havin' fun."

Irina put her head on his shoulder. Ludwig sang softly under his breath. Irina closed her eyes, feeling the gentle vibration of his voice.

"What if...what if we got a place together?" Ludwig asked suddenly, emboldened by the alcohol still buzzing in his veins.

Irina picked her head up, fixing him with a dubious look. "You want me to move in with you?"

"Yeah. Why not?"

"How do you think that would look? Especially since we're not...I mean, we aren't m-married."

"So?"

"'So?'" Irina echoed. "You don't think that's a little unfair to me?"

"I just thought — since we're both not happy where we are right now — why not?"

"And what do you think people will say? An unwed man and woman living together?"

"You suddenly care 'bout what people think?" Ludwig slurred.

"And _you_ don't?" Irina scoffed with a knowing look.

"You're asking me to pretend to be something," Irina continued, "to pretend we're a married couple — "

"Married?" Ludwig balked, the music and the booze going to his head. "I never said anything about married. That was all you. We could jus' say we're brother and sister, or somethin'."

"It's still a pretense," Irina said. "And I already pretended once for you."

The song ended. Ludwig stalked back to their table. Irina trailed behind. A waiter had cleared away the shot glasses, leaving two glasses of water in their place. Ludwig greedily drank his down, only having realized just how thirsty he was.

The band played a tango, the brassy notes from the horns recalling memories he thought he could forget. Antonio tried to teach him the dance once, but his inept feet lacked the flair for it. That didn't stop him from trying. Even now, he could still hear Alfred's laugh, loud and bright as a trumpet; even now, he could still feel the grin on his face as they spun across the dance floor. Even now, he could remember the letters sent without answer, all because of the promise made. Alfred _said_ he would write….

Ludwig gripped his water glass tighter, wishing it was vodka.

Irina took Ludwig's hand, noting the dark look crossing his brow. "I think it's time to go," she said as the band struck up a new song.

"But I know this one," Ludwig said. "It's Josephine Baker. _One_ more song, Irina. Please?" He stood, his face desperate. The night could not end on a sour note. He wouldn't let it.

Irina sighed, about to nod, when a scuffle broke out between a club goer and the pianist. The man knocked the sheet music off the stand, shouting something about _Negermusik._ The pianist cowered as the man berated him, smacking his head and shoving him. A few others joined in, cursing and pushing the musicians.

Ludwig felt like he was underwater as everything came to a sudden halt. The world around them unraveled. No more music, no more dancing. The club filled with shouts and yells and swinging fists. Confusion and inebriation made him slow to react, though he still had enough presence of mind to maneuver himself in front of Irina. He felt her clutch his jacket, fingers curling into a fist, readying for a fight.

"Pigs," she said under her breath.

Ludwig began backing to the front entrance, tripping over chairs and his own feet, noticing a handful of other club goers doing the same. The rest remained, either staring in indifference or joining the fray, none inclined to stop it.

.

.

.

The clock on the mantle chimed three as the scrape of a key turning in a lock could be heard from the front door. Gilbert sighed, scratching a thumbnail over his brow, as Ludwig stumbled in. He could tell, from the painfully long time it took Ludwig to close the door, his brother was doing his best not to wake anyone. That changed the moment Ludwig saw the kitchen light on, his heavy footfalls shaking the floor as he walked over and leaned in the doorway.

"You're home late," Gilbert remarked, taking a sip of coffee.

Ludwig shrugged, swaying on the spot. "You're up early. 'S all a matter o' perspective," he slurred.

Gilbert puffed out a laugh. Ludwig took off his coat, tossing it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

"Thought you'd be staying with Ivan tonight."

Ludwig stopped in the middle of toeing off his shoes and sent his brother a quizzical look. "What makes you say that?"

Gilbert shrugged a shoulder. "…Just making conversation, I guess."

Ludwig shook his head and shuffled into the living room, collapsing on the couch with a groan and throwing one arm over his eyes, shielding them from the light spilling in from the kitchen.

"You know you can sleep in your bed tonight, if — if you want," Gilbert said. He stood in the doorway, cradling his mug in one hand.

Ludwig picked his head up. "Hm? But where're you gonna sleep?"

"…I might take the couch, or…." Gilbert's voice trailed off as he looked down the hall. "Or wherever."

Ludwig followed his brother's gaze, knowing it meant something, but the liquor still pumping through him left little room for coherent thought. He pushed himself up. "Did you wait up all night just to tell me that?"

Gilbert shook his head and looked at the floor. "I'm just not really tired right now is all."

Ludwig drew his knees up, resting his head against the cushions. Gilbert sat beside him, lighting a cigarette.

"…So're you guys…you and — and Roderich — better now?" Ludwig hiccuped, blinking unevenly.

Gilbert looked at his brother, at the blue eyes heavy with the weight of too much drink, and shrugged. "Like you said, it's all a matter of perspective."

A heavy hand landed on Gilbert's knee. "…You guys are good together," Ludwig slurred. "I think…you guys are good, and I jus'…I think I fucked up. I mean, I think I fucked up stuff between you — "

"No. Hey, c'mon. You didn't. You didn't do anything — "

" — and I jus' want you to know — " Ludwig slung an arm around Gilbert's shoulders, pulling him close — "I want you to know that…I'm sorry." He fixed his brother with as earnest a gaze as he could muster, swaying slightly on the sofa.

"Okay, Lutz," Gilbert said, patting his brother on the back.

"I mean it," Ludwig said, pressing his head against Gilbert's. "I'm sorry. But I'm gonna be better — I _am_ better — now."

"Okay," Gilbert said, finishing his cigarette. "It's time for bed now, kid." He stood, and Ludwig followed, his much taller frame lurching on unsteady feet. Gilbert balanced him, letting his brother lean on him as they shuffled down the narrow hall.

Ludwig stumbled into his room and was sound asleep the moment his head hit the pillows. Gilbert drew up the blankets, his brother's deep breaths giving way to heavy snores.

Gilbert went to his old room, hesitating a moment outside the door. It had been a year since he last slept in that bed. The choice had been his own, of course, just like now it was his to decide whether to return to it. But he had given Roderich his word that he would stay. And he was loyal to a fault.

Softly, he opened the door and slipped into bed, feeling eyes upon him in the dark.

"Is Ludwig home?" Roderich asked.

"Yeah."

"I'm glad."

"How long have you been awake?"

"Awhile."

Gilbert curled onto his side, eyes tracing over Roderich's darkened outline. "Another dream?"

"No. The bed was just…empty."

Gilbert reached out, hand gliding under sheets, wanting to close the distance between them. But Roderich was just beyond his reach. He edged closer, taking Roderich's hand in his, the pianist's fingers thin and cold as they curled against his warm palm.

"Go back to sleep."

.

.

.


	4. Chapter 4 - The Time's Plague

**.**

 **Chapter 4 – The Time's Plague**

 **.**

* * *

 **1934**

Moritz stood in front of the window, overlooking the street. If you pressed your cheek to the glass, you could see the Brandenburg Gate jutting out over the tops of the buildings. To the right of it lay the tree-lined boulevard — Unter den Linden. Ludwig remembered the countless expatriates and tourists gushing over it as if it were the Champs-Elysees in Paris. He never understood what the big deal was. It was just a row of trees. Apparently people found it romantic, or something, walking the shady boulevard from the Brandenburg Gate to the Berliner palace, imagining a procession of carriages and horses from centuries before, in days of splendor. It was something Gilbert could wax poetic about — the days of Prussian glory — as if he'd been alive to see it. Ludwig would solemnly remind his brother they grew up in Dresden, surrounded by factories and poverty. A strange look would then cross Gilbert's face, turning his already pale skin even whiter, and he'd spend the rest of the day hardly speaking to anyone. Ludwig always assumed it was because he'd poked a hole in his brother's fanaticism. Maybe Germany had been great before, but he just couldn't see it. He had grown up in the aftermath of war. Empires and kings were alien to him. Nothing but names memorialized in the ink of history books. Alfred once asked him to go for a walk Unter den Linden, but Ludwig shrugged it off — another regret added to his ever growing list.

Ludwig ran a hand through his hair, looking up from his work. His eyes stung from staring at lines and numbers for too long. Moritz was still standing by the window, smoking. Ludwig wondered how long he'd been like that. It wasn't all that unusual for Moritz. He was a strange bird. Short, and somewhat stooped, Moritz was a squirrelly man. He twitched when he moved and mumbled when he talked. His eyes were wide and down-turned, giving his face a perpetually sad expression. He was the firm's only landscape architect. And though he had "architect" in his official title, he was barely a pay grade above a draftsman like Ludwig. In the back of his mind, Ludwig wondered if Moritz's low pay was because he was Jewish.

Ludwig twirled his pencil around his fingers, watching Moritz stare out the window. He sighed through his nose, set the pencil down, and went to stand beside his co-worker.

"What are you looking at?"

"They're tearing down the trees."

"What trees?"

"The ones along the boulevard." Moritz took a drag from his cigarette.

Ludwig squinted into the distance. "How do you know?"

Moritz put a finger to his lips, indicating for Ludwig to listen. Somewhat unsure, Ludwig put his ear near the window. Above the constant buzz of traffic, he could hear the hollow, echoing _thwack_ of an axe, a few low shouts, and the crunching crash as the tree was felled.

Moritz sighed. "'As long as the old trees bloom on Unter den Linden, nothing can defeat us, Berlin will be Berlin.'"

The back of Ludwig's neck prickled as a memory of him, dressed as his stage persona, singing that very song, surfaced. He pushed it away and cleared his throat.

"Why are they doing that?"

Moritz eyed Ludwig a moment. One corner of his thin mouth twitched up in a smirk. Somehow it made his face look even sadder. "Who knows?" he shrugged. "Probably Hitler wanted to widen his parade route."

"It's for the expansion of the Nord-Süd line," a voice said, making them both jump.

Herr Richter, the firm's owner, was standing right behind them.

"Don't you have work to do?" Herr Richter inquired.

Ludwig was about to stammer out an apology until he noticed his boss's eyes were fixed solely on Moritz, scowling in distaste.

Moritz slunk away. Herr Richter took his place, clasping his hands behind his back and looking out the window.

Her Richter smiled — a genial expression, replacing the contemptuous glare worn mere moments ago. "Progress," he sighed in deference. "For so long, we were without a future. But new life has been breathed into our country once again. I can only imagine what great things are to come."

Herr Richter placed a hand on Ludwig's shoulder and smiled again. Ludwig felt his stomach sink.

"Moritz has always preferred plants over progress, plants over people," Herr Richter continued.

"That's because plants don't talk," Moritz muttered from his desk.

Herr Richter's face hardened. He clasped his hands behind his back once again.

Ludwig's office was in the Mitte district, on Behrenstraße, a twenty minute U-bahn ride from Kreuzberg. He turned back to the window, looking east. The Opernplatz stood about two blocks away. Ludwig could still remember the smell in the air the day after they burned the books. He remembered how quiet the office seemed the rest of that week. Did Herr Richter consider that "progress" as well?

"Excuse me," Ludwig muttered. "I should get back to my work."

"Of course."

Herr Richter returned to his office. Ludwig went back to his desk and tried to concentrate on his drawings of building elevations, ignoring the lump forming in his throat.

Moritz watched him.

Ludwig's eyes flicked up. "What?"

"He likes you. Because you're Aryan."

Ludwig snorted. "Come off it. There's no such thing." He glanced quickly around the room, but no one paid them any attention. Herr Richter had closed his office door. "Just more Nazi myth and propaganda," Ludwig muttered.

"Even still," Moritz said. "You should be careful, Ludwig."

Ludwig looked up, eyes locking with his coworker's. _What about you?_ he never asked.

.

.

.

Roderich stared at his watch. It was a quarter after ten in the morning, and his distributor was late. Roderich tapped his foot, wanting to quell the feeling in his gut that something was not right.

Another fifteen minutes passed. Roderich checked the alley. It was empty. He checked the front. No trucks rumbled up or down the street.

Roderich's unease grew. Herr Janow had been delivering wine to the club ever since Roderich took over ownership. And he had never been late with a delivery. Never.

Roderich cursed under his breath. All the old businesses were being driven out. Many closed after the Depression hit. And the ones that were barely hanging on would soon be pushed out by some eager profiteer, waiting to take its place. People only came to this city to make money, Roderich thought bitterly. Berlin was no longer the carefree girl he once knew. She was greedy, covetous, turning more inward each day.

Roderich sighed, riffling through a stack of bills until he found the one from Janow. He dialed the number, but the phone just rang and rang. Roderich looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven. A disquieting hollowness gnawed his stomach. Something was not right.

Roderich grabbed his jacket and locked up the club, heading for the nearest U-bahn station.

He rode the train north toward the _Scheunenviertel,_ disembarking at Oranienburger Tor station, and making his way toward Linienstrasse, counting the building numbers in his head until he reached Herr Janow's.

A young man was out front with a broom, sweeping the sidewalk. Roderich barely registered him, until he saw the bits of glass, a small pile gleaming at the man's feet. Behind him, one of the store windows had been covered with a sheet of plywood.

The young man bent and swept the pile into a dustpan, eyes catching on Roderich as he stood. His face was lifeless, eyes drained of any emotion as he stared at Roderich. Still holding the dustpan, he shouldered his way through the door to Janow's store. Roderich followed. The bell over the door tinkled as he entered. Roderich started at the sound. Herr Janow was talking with a woman, holding a clipboard in one hand while the other raked through greying hair. He looked over his shoulder upon hearing the bell chime a second time.

Roderich remained in the doorway, unsure what to do. The scene before him was an all too familiar one: bottles smashed, crates broken, the store an utter wreck. Roderich's throat went dry, remembering the damage his club suffered, first at the hands of Ivan, then by those brownshirt boys.

"H-Herr Edelstein!" Herr Janow rushed over. "What — what are you doing here?"

Roderich fumbled, head and mouth working in tandem to find the right words, but Herr Janow's eyes widened as the realization hit.

"Oh! Your delivery! My deepest apologies, Herr Edelstein. Please — "

"That's quite all right," Roderich stammered, finding his voice. "There's no need to apologize. I just — I had a feeling something was…." His eyes swept over the ruined shop. The young man with the broom was cleaning up broken bottles in the corner, watching them. "What happened?"

Herr Janow tried to shrug it off. "Just some hooligans, I expect. Probably wanting a free drink, or — you know, that sort of thing." He gave an uneasy laugh.

The young man with the broom shook his head with a disparaging sound.

Herr Janow ignored him. "I do have a few crates that they missed. I-I'll bring them around tomorrow. If that's — okay?"

Roderich blinked. "I — but, I couldn't. I'm sure we can get through the week just fine — "

"I'll bring them 'round tomorrow," Janow insisted. "The usual time. And don't worry about the bill this week. It's on me."

"That's…very generous of you, but if this is all you have left — I can't take it —"

"Please, Herr Edelstein. I want you to have them. We've done business together a while now, and — it's just, you're a decent person. You're the only one of my customers who's…been kind."

Roderich felt himself nod. "…Alright."

Herr Janow smiled and pressed a bottle of wine into Roderich's hands, insisting the Austrian take it.

Roderich stumbled out of the store, uncertainty creeping upon him as his feet traced the path back to the U-bahn station. He held the bottle in his lap as he rode the train, staring at the other passengers, each absorbed in their own world. It was the same and yet…not. Berlin wore a mask. Or maybe she had finally taken it off.

Ivan's words ran through his head. All of his warnings, his entreaties to end the drag acts. Were they finally coming to fruition?

He thought back to last year. The night when fires lit up the darkened sky. When Hirschfeld's Institute was ransacked. It had been quiet at the club that night. Roderich closed up early. But the quiet had followed him home, invading their flat. Even Gilbert had enough presence of mind not to speak. Again, Ivan appealed to him to change the acts. Again, Roderich refused — though he could not deny his nerves, pulled tight as they were, twisted around the peg another degree. He now had another thought that kept him up at night, in addition to his finances, in addition to memories of the war. But the club, somehow, remained unscathed. The last time it had been attacked was three years ago. Just before he and Gilbert decided it best to sleep in separate rooms. But the Nazis had not been in power then. And he had chalked it up to…what was it Janow had said? Hooligans. Trouble-makers. Having a laugh defacing gay clubs, Jewish businesses….

Roderich's hands twisted around the neck of the wine bottle. He looked around the train car again, but all of the faces were too foreign. Strangers. He didn't belong here. And they knew it.

The train entered a tunnel, plunging them into momentary darkness. Roderich's breath caught in his throat. The walls contracted, the seats drawing nearer. Close. Too close. One long unbroken line. People sitting. People crouching. People leaning, standing — good god, why are you standing get down before they shoot!

The train dissolved before him. No longer a man-made structure of iron and wood, it became one of earth and snow. The walls of the tunnel, mountains. Roderich pulled at his shirt collar. He couldn't breathe. The darkness pricked the edges of his vision, ready to enclose him. Roderich curled himself in his seat, wanting to shut his eyes, but too afraid what might happen if he did.

The train arrived at a platform, swimming in electric light. The doors opened and Roderich rushed out of the carriage, wholly unsure of where he was. He needed air, to see the sky, the buildings. He stumbled up the stairs, feeling his way as if blind. He reached the upper level, spinning in a daze. But rather than feel the sunlight on his face, or hear the bustle of cars, he found himself amid a tangle of glass and steel. A man made cavern. He was on the Straßenbahn platform. People passed by him, side-eyeing him as if he were drunk. The wine bottle clutched in his hand only served to prove their assumptions correct.

Roderich blinked, forcing himself to be still. He was above ground. He was safe….

He turned and read off the station name from the large window behind him. Friedrichstrasse. He was near the Mitte district. Still too far from home to walk. That left him with only two options: phone a taxi or descend beneath. The stairwell gaped at him, reminding him too much of the bombed out shell of a trench. Roderich shut his eyes, willing the image away, but it would not leave him, so he hastened away from it. A crowd swept him up. He let himself be led on. Another staircase. One that, he vaguely registered, would take him down to street level. He let his feet carry him, still trying to shake those memories.

He emerged over two blocks away, on a tree-lined boulevard.

.

.

.

Ludwig decided to have lunch at one of the cafes on Unter den Linden. He usually brought something from home, eating it at his desk and continuing with his work. But after that morning, he did not feel inclined to spend any more time than necessary near Herr Richter's presence. And he was also curious to see if what Moritz said about the trees was really true.

Ludwig took his lunch out of his bag and locked it in a desk drawer — he'd have it tomorrow — and made his way up to the boulevard. Sure enough, workers were taking down the trees. Ludwig frowned, wondering if they would put them back after the U-bahn expansion was done. For all his dismissiveness about the boulevard, it certainly looked…less welcoming without the linden trees.

Ludwig took a table outside. As it was midday, the men had taken a break from their work, leaving the remaining trees to the boulevard. Besides, the weather was mild, and though he normally did not care for the noise from the street, he felt an odd sense of obligation to the old lindens. As if one person, sitting outside, enjoying their shade, would somehow be able to save them from coming down. It was a foolish thing to hope for, but even knowing that could not dispel the darker thought looming in the back of his mind. The Berlin he knew was changing.

.

.

.

Ludwig had just ordered his after lunch coffee when he saw him.

"Roderich!" Ludwig called.

The Austrian looked around a confused moment, until he saw Ludwig waving him over. He leaned heavily on his cane, wine bottle still clutched in one hand, as he made his way down the sidewalk.

"What are you doing up this way?" Ludwig asked, pulling out a chair.

Roderich looked around, as if unaware he was being addressed. A haunted look hung about his face, his eyes wide. It was a look Ludwig had seen before. On Gilbert's face. After being awoken from a dream by his scared little brother. Roderich was awake and yet not. He looked around again, eyes following some invisible apparition, until his gaze fell on Ludwig.

"Ludwig," he breathed. His whole countenance seemed to unwind, taught lips spread into a smile upon seeing the blonde. Then his eyes widened again in horror as he took in the cafe, the boulevard. He covered his mouth with a shaky hand. "Oh, God. Oh, no, no. I-I didn't — I mean I…I — "

"It's alright," Ludwig coaxed.

Roderich passed a hand over his brow, noticing as he did, he was still holding the wine. He set it on the table.

"The distributor," he mumbled. "I was visiting the distributor. Herr Janow. And then I left and…." Comprehension etched across his face. Roderich lit a cigarette and rubbed his forehead. "Dear God. I-it's only ever happened at night…."

Ludwig's brow knit. "…What?"

Roderich sniffed, shaking his head. "It's ridiculous." He looked away, tipping his head up to the sun, eyes closing. "…Sometimes...it's as if I'm not even here." His eyes opened again, a look of self-disgust pulling his lips down. "I mean, of course I'm _here —"_ the hand holding the cigarette gestured wildly " — but it's…I c-can't see it. Suddenly I'm — back _there_. On that godforsaken mountain."

Ludwig worked his jaw, not knowing what to say. Unlike Gilbert, Roderich hardly ever spoke of his time during the war.

Ludwig let his gaze drift over to the rows of trees the workers had not got to yet. The leaves rustled in the breeze. A whisper, passed from bough to bough. He wondered if they knew what fate had befallen their brothers. If they knew what fate awaited them….

Roderich finished his cigarette just as the waiter brought Ludwig's coffee. Ludwig looked at it and frowned. He should have asked if Roderich wanted anything. He had never been good at hospitality. Or comfort. But the Austrian was staring down the boulevard, a distant look on his face.

"…I need to get back. To the club," Roderich said at length.

"Do you want me to walk you to the U-bahn?"

Roderich shook his head. "I'm not getting on that damned train again."

Ludwig thought for a moment. He wanted to help, really he did. But the trouble was, the only way he knew to help was by offering solutions. Solutions that could be enacted. What Roderich had experienced was something he knew he could not fix directly.

"I'll phone a taxi," Ludwig offered.

"Please don't trouble yourself, Ludwig — "

"It's no trouble at all," Ludwig said, rising. Now he had something to do. He could fix this. Now he could be Useful. He got up and went into the cafe, heading for the pay phones in the back. He returned a few moments later, informing Roderich the taxi would be there in fifteen minutes.

"Would you like anything while we wait?" Ludwig asked, seizing on an opportunity previously missed.

Roderich shook his head and lit another cigarette. "I'm fine, thank you."

The minutes passed in silence. Even the boulevard, usually bustling with people, was eerily still.

When the taxi arrived, Ludwig hurried to get the door, eager to help in any way he could, though his efforts seemed wholly unnoticed by Roderich. The Austrian hardly looked at him as he stepped in, offering a cryptic "I'm sorry for having disturbed you at work" as a farewell. The taxi drove off, leaving a bewildered Ludwig on the sidewalk.

.

.

.

The mood at the Supper Club was not much better. Roderich was serving as bartender. It was Gilbert's night off anyway. Usually one of the waitstaff would take over, but given the dwindling crowds in the middle of the week, Roderich resorted to pulling out the record player rather than play piano to an almost empty dining hall.

"Look at it, Ludwig," Ivan sighed, sweeping an arm around at the nearly empty room. "Even on its bad nights, I've never seen it look so depressing."

Ludwig sipped his beer. Aside from theirs, only two other tables were occupied.

"I don't know why you're complaining," Ludwig scoffed. "We could have the whole dance floor to ourselves."

Ivan gave a pinched grin. "I'm not in the mood to dance, Solnyshko."

Ludwig hid his relief behind his beer. He wasn't in the mood to dance, either. Or socialize for that matter. Keeping up the flow of flirty banter with Ivan was hard enough. He only went to the club that night out of concern for Roderich. But watching him now, Ludwig could hardly believe only a few hours ago he had been a lost shell of a man. He was fastidiously absorbed in his work, alternating between taking inventory of his liquor stock and filling out lines in his ledger.

Ivan followed Ludwig's gaze, lips twisting in a frown as his eyes fell on Roderich. "He's being stubborn."

Ludwig turned his attention back to the table. "Who?"

Ivan jerked his head at the bar. He scrubbed a hand over his face then laid it atop Ludwig's. A heavy breath followed.

"Solnyshko," he began, "we need to talk."

A stone dropped into Ludwig's stomach upon hearing those words. In the past, it was akin to "let's go upstairs," and he was in no mood for spending the night with Ivan tonight. No matter how he tried, he could not shake Roderich's haunted face or the sounds of the falling trees.

Ludwig looked at Ivan, fully intending to decline the offer, but his tongue was held by a crack in Ivan's face. A faint lift of the brow, his impenetrable facade broken — the tiniest bit of sadness leaking out.

Ludwig bit his tongue. And nodded.

.

The stairs were quiet save for the occasional creak under their feet. It was the middle of the week; the girls had the night off. Despite this, the hallway should have been alive with the sound of bright voices, a laugh, someone's radio. Anything. But it was as still as the boulevard.

Ivan unlocked the door and gestured to the small round table inside. Ludwig sat, recalling the first night he spent with Ivan and the morning after — the breakfast arranged on this very table, done with such care, the note and flood of strange feelings. He had never loved Ivan. He knew that now. He had simply allowed himself to settle. It was easier than another heartbreak.

Ivan made a pot of tea. Ludwig drank it out of politeness; he would have preferred something stronger, though it had almost the same bitter bite as coffee. He studied Ivan over his cup rim, searching for the crack he had seen earlier. But Ivan had sealed himself up again.

"I'm going home, Solnyshko," Ivan said at length. "Back east," he added at the confused expression on Ludwig's face.

"…You mean Russia?"

Ivan nodded. "First it was the Depression. Now it's those brownshirts. Nearly all of my other business interests have dried up or closed down. I've managed to keep the police away from Roderich's club despite so many others being forced to close. I imagine they'll keep turning a blind eye until the Nazis offer them a better price, so it's only a matter of time."

Ludwig blinked. The reality of what Ivan had said — that he was about to lose yet another constant in his life — sat between them on a knife point, perfectly balanced, until Ludwig pushed it off with a timorous "Why?"

Ivan swept the question away with a shrug. "I have no further prospects here. And I do not wish to get mixed up with those National Socialists."

"You're just trading one regime for another."

"Maybe. But there are some back home who are not too happy with Stalin's Plans and I want to — "

"Profit off them," Ludwig spat.

"— _help_ them," Ivan finished sternly.

Ludwig crossed and uncrossed his legs, fidgeting in his seat, wanting to assail Ivan. _It never meant anything, did it? All those years, all those awkward encounters. It never meant a thing._

Ludwig's mouth twisted, upset at himself for even allowing those thoughts to enter his head. His brother had been wrong. His brother was always wrong. He never loved Ivan, and Ivan never loved him. (Foolish of him to think it might be true).

"I can see I've struck a nerve," Ivan said.

Ludwig smoothed out the lines in his face. He would not play the jilted lover. He was too proud for that role. "I can't say I wasn't expecting it."

Ivan smirked. "Solnyshko, you're a terrible liar."

"Are we done here?" _What do you want me to say?_

"…If you wish it."

Ivan's hand rested on the table. Ludwig reached for it, turning it over and tracing the lines on the palm one last time. The map he had known so well.

"You never asked to come with me," Ivan said, mouth hinting at playfulness.

"Because you don't want me to," Ludwig stated.

The lines contracted.

"You know, most men only look each other in the eyes to find the lie. But your hands tell me everything I want to know. I learned that awhile ago, Ivan. As much as you said you were protecting me, you were really only protecting yourself."

The map crumpled. Ivan withdrew his hand. His eyes narrowed, lips twitching up. "Perhaps I was wrong about you."

"Perhaps."

"Would you come with me, if I asked?"

Ludwig thought a moment. As much as he had dreamt in his youth of leaving Berlin, of experiencing life lived with his lover by his side, he knew those things could never happen. At least not with Ivan. One of the last vestiges of his life before was now leaving. There would no longer be that constant presence. The map to guide him. But now it was time for him to guide himself.

"No," Ludwig said. "This is my home."

A lightness formed in his chest. One of acceptance, relief. It was small now, but Ludwig knew with time, it would grow. For too long he had molded himself to fit others' shapes. He had been an ingenue for Mathias, Lola for Feliciano, and a coquette for Ivan. Now it was time for him...to just be him.

He kissed Ivan one last time. And left.

As he shut the door, a sobering thought begged for room. It took root beside his newfound revelation and grew along with it. With the Nazis in power, he had picked a hell of a time for self-acceptance.

Ludwig shoved his hands in his pockets and ambled down the stairs, the stillness in the hall the unnerving.

He came out into the alley and walked around front, ready to head home. The club's lights were still on, which he found a little odd, considering how dead it had been. He pushed open the door, the memory of that afternoon and Roderich at once near and distant.

The Austrian glanced up from his work as Ludwig approached.

"I thought you'd gone."

In the stage wing, the record player needle scratched as the record wound down. Ludwig lifted it and went over to the bar.

"I saw the lights still on."

Roderich nodded. "I'm nearly done." He paused his calculations and poured a glass of brandy and slid it to Ludwig. "You look like you could do with one."

Ludwig settled onto a stool. "Ivan's leaving."

"I suppose that's a small mercy. For my wallet at least. Not so much for my club." Roderich shut his ledger and lit a cigarette. His eyes unfocused as if he were deep in thought. With a blink, it was gone. "I'm sorry," he added, seeing the drawn look on Ludwig's face.

"Don't be. Not for me, anyway." Ludwig downed his brandy then helped Roderich lock up.

When they reached the flat, Gilbert was waiting for them in his customary spot, reclined on the sofa with the radio playing. Ludwig bid them both goodnight and headed for his room.

"You're early," Gilbert commented.

Roderich didn't respond. He drifted over to sit on his piano bench, noticing as he did a folded up newspaper laying on the coffee table. His eyes grew distant.

"I thought I made it quite clear I do not wish to see your propaganda in this house."

Gilbert rolled his eyes, ready to return the supercilious comment with one of his own, when he noticed the faraway look on Roderich's face.

Gilbert sat up. "Specs? Is everything…o-okay?"

Roderich shook his head with a wan smile. "It's been a day."

"Tell me."

Roderich winced. The words, a physical manifestation, like hands outstretched. He eyed the newspaper again.

"I wish you would be done with that party."

Gilbert rubbed his palms on his slacks, turning his cheek as if he'd been slapped.

"They're nothing but a bunch of bullies," Roderich continued, lips barely moving to form the words. "No matter what they claim to champion."

"…I know," Gilbert murmured.

Roderich looked at him, his eyes narrowing. Gilbert kept his face averted and lit a cigarette. He flipped over the newspaper and pointed a pale finger at an article.

"Read it."

Roderich's mouth twisted, but he picked up the paper and began to skim it. The article spoke of the recent purge, as June bled into July, calling it a necessary measure, ensuring the elimination of treasonous assaults against the German nation. It largely read as a re-working of Hitler's broadcast, when he gave the incident its name: Night of the Long Knives. But in between words praising the efforts in ousting the traitors were not so subtle suggestions as to the root of the problem: Röhm and homosexuals like him were defective asocials, deliberately subverting the laws of God and Nature, defiling the moral decency of German society.

When he had finished reading, Roderich folded the newspaper back up and placed it on the coffee table as if it were a bomb. His posture stiffened.

Gilbert chewed a cuticle, knee bouncing nervously up and down. "There's something else," he said. Gilbert stood and retrieved something from the bookshelf by the door. It was a piece of paper. An application for Party membership. Roderich read the title as it floated from Gilbert's hand down onto the table.

"I've had this for a year."

"And yet you never filled it out?"

Gilbert shook his head. He sank back onto the sofa, picking up the application. Funny to think something so fragile as paper could have such value. But it was more than just paper. This was proof. Proof of his lineage, of loyalty to his beloved country. This was his own pride. But when those loyal to the Party raided Hirschfeld's institute, it became clear _his_ kind would not be tolerated in this new Germany. But rather than throw it out, he placed it on the bookshelf, out of sight but not forgotten, some part of him hoping those white-shirted youths would be punished for what they did. Justice never came. The world around them continued to deteriorate, though many seemed hardly to notice. After all, _they_ weren't the ones suffering. Everyday Gilbert passed the bookshelf, the paper hidden in the shadows served as a reminder of the Germany he was promised, and of the lie that was taking its place.

"I guess I'm on the losing side again." With a stuttering breath, Gilbert ripped the application in half. His eyes shone as he laughed and shredded it to bits.

Gilbert swept the scraps into his hand and went into the kitchen. He lit a fire in the oven and tossed the pieces in.

Roderich entered. He stood beside Gilbert, resting his head on Gilbert's shoulder.

"...We need to talk about the club."

Gilbert finished his cigarette. He gave it to the crucible, then pressed his lips to Roderich's hair.

Their fingers twined together as the fire consumed the paper.

.

.

.

* * *

 _ **A/N: A lot of history in this one, so bear with me -**_ _Unter den Linden is the famed lime tree-lined boulevard in Berlin. The trees along Unter den Linden have been cut down and replanted various times throughout their long history, however when the Nazis took them down and erected flagpoles in their place is probably the most well-known time. There are many differing accounts as to why they were removed – the most common thought is that Hitler wanted to widen his parade route. But the removal also coincided with the expansion of the Nord-S_ _üd U-bahn line._

 _Solang noch Untern Linden — song that Moritz quotes. It was originally written in 1923 by Walter Kollo as part of the Drunter und dr_ _ü_ _ber musical revue. Marlene Dietrich also sang a version in 1965. "Solang noch 'Untern Linden' / Die alten Bäume blüh'n / Kann nichts uns überwinden / Berlin bleibt doch Berlin." "_ _As long as the old trees bloom on Unter den Linden, nothing can defeat us, Berlin will be Berlin."_

 _The Opernplatz (now Bebelplatz) is where the infamous book burnings took place in May 1933._

 _The_ _Scheunenviertel is an historically Jewish quarter in Berlin._

 _Stalin's Plan – refers to the First Five-Year Plan and Second-Five Year Plan. The First Five-Year Plan focused on industrialization. The propaganda that promoted it compared it to a battle and was widely successful. However, there was resistance from peasants regarding collectivized farming. Despite this, Stalin soon instituted the Second Five-Year Plan, focusing on heavy industry, making the Soviet Union a major steel-producing country. The second plan incentivized meeting production quotas with rewards as well as punishments._

" _Not so much for my club" – Roderich is referring to the many gay clubs and cafes that were forced to close during Nazi rule. Many were shut down in 1933. For the story, I had Roderich's place hold out a little bit longer due largely to Ivan's influence with the local police. But now that Ivan is going back to Mother Russia, Roderich's club no longer has that layer of protection._

" _No matter what they claim to champion" – The Nazi party's political strategy initially promoted anti-big business, anti-bourgeois, and anti-capitalist rhetoric. It was nationalistic and aimed to draw people away from the communist party. As more and more industrialists began to support it, it began to downplay its anti-big business stance and focused instead on anti-Semitic and anti-Marxist themes._

 _Nazi Party application – joining the party initially involved lots of paperwork and proving your pure German heritage. I think as the war drew on, the requirements were not as stringent (like you only had to prove your great-grandparents were pure German?) but yeah. Being a party member put you in very good standing, and for tradesmen, it was basically job security as the majority of jobs only went to members. So Gilbert's just trying to cover his ass (and given what he was arrested for when he was younger, it's not surprising)._

 _Ernst Röhm and Night of the Long Knives – long story short, Röhm was a military officer and early member of the Nazi Party. He was also the leader of the SA (Sturmabteilung, AKA "brownshirts"), a close ally of Hitler, and a homosexual. Under allegations Röhm was plotting to overthrow the Nazi government, Hitler ordered Röhm and other leaders of the SA to be killed. Knowing that much murder was bad for business, so to speak, Hitler then took to the airwaves a few days later and spun the whole thing as a legally sanctioned act to protect the nation from treason. He even gave it the name "Night of the Long Knives." Many in the Nazi Party used this event as a way to further justify the persecution of homosexuals. From the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum: "Some claimed that_ _Röhm had surrounded himself with homosexuals, who undermined both the moral fiber of the Nazi movement and endangered national security." After the_ _Röhm Purge, the range of prosecutable homosexual acts was broadened, as well as the severity of punishment._

 _Hirschfeld Institute – AKA Institut für Sexualwissenschaft pioneered sex education as well as civil rights for homosexual and transgender people. It opened in 1919 and lasted until the Deutsche Studentenschaft (German Student Union) marched in in May 1933 and attacked the institute. A few days later, the institutes books and research were hauled out to the Opernplatz and burned._

 _Chapter title is from King Lear: "'Tis the time's plague, when the madmen lead the blind."_

 _Thank you all for reading/following/reviewing! I may edit this one a little bit later. My original plan was to have it be a LOT shorter, but you guys have waited long enough for an update! I may as well make it substantial, right? Next up: some good news for Irina._


	5. Chapter 5 - In My Beginning is My End

**.**

 **Chapter 5 – In My Beginning is My End**

 **.**

* * *

 **October, 1934**

Gilbert watched the rain from the Supper Club lobby. Rivulets ran down the glass, pulling the shapes of the buildings outside along with them. It drew an impression of his city, framed within windows. Each one, a brush stroke. A smudge of color. Nebulous.

He lit a cigarette with his own paint-stained fingers.

The Supper Club was closed. Had been that way for a month. Would probably be that way for another week, maybe two, if the rain had any say in the matter. It had been pouring nonstop for three days, and didn't show any sign of letting up. Gilbert was nearly done painting the walls inside. That just left the front of the building to do. And it meant saying goodbye to the red and gold art deco lines Lovino had painted another decade ago. Feliciano wasn't the only one in that family skilled with a brush. Too bad he didn't have their help now, Gilbert thought. But Roderich didn't want any fancy designs. Just paint the walls. And the building. Tone it down. Make it match the ones beside it. Grey was always good.

The Supper Club was closed. _Closed_ closed. The plan was to re-open it as a bar only. And along with its new coat of paint, it also would have a new name – _Die Insel –_ after a joke Gilbert made about theirs being the only gay club left in Berlin. They truly were an island.

Hard to believe, that. The thing that had united them and divided them over and over again. Their cabaret. Soon to be a relic.

They had held out the longest, it seemed. Most of the other clubs on Ku'damm or in Schoenberg shut their doors for good last year. Being in Kreuzberg had its advantages. And having the backing of a well-connected Russian gangster didn't hurt, Gilbert grudgingly admitted. Though he and Roderich never found out just how much Ivan's "protection" extended. Not wanting to risk what might happen should he fail to be prepared, Roderich made the decision to close the cabaret shortly before Ivan left. He told the girls, of course. Many were nonplussed. They were new blood, but they still sensed the inevitability. The crowds had died soon after the Nazis seized power. Roderich offered to let them stay on as serving or kitchen staff. A few took the opportunity. The rest most likely went back to working the alleys or under the bridges. Gilbert sometimes saw one or two going in the side entrance to the flats upstairs. He tried to catch their eye, to say hi, but they kept their eyes down. He wondered if they would eventually move out. Like Feliks did.

Gilbert finished his cigarette and tossed it into the deluge outside.

The Supper Club belonged to a different time. A time that, for a few short years, was theirs. His and Roderich's, Antonio's and Feliks'. And Ludwig's.

A memory of his brother on stage in a dress, performing his cabaret routine flashed. Quick, like the spark of a matchhead, but enough to unsettle him.

Gilbert willed the thought away. He had never accepted Ludwig's choice, Roderich's acquiescence. He never accepted it, even though he could have stopped it.

Instead he ran.

He ran from everything like he always did. Except for a scrawny aristocrat in a too-big army uniform who had no business being on that mountain. Or in that war to begin with. Roderich. He could never run from Roderich. And he never would. Whatever this new Germany held, he would never run again.

.

Roderich was backstage. He had managed to sell off most of the props and costumes, the vanities. The dressing room would become a room for musicians to keep their instruments or get ready before a performance. If he ever booked any music acts. He only kept the stage because he couldn't afford to get rid of it otherwise. The change was still so fresh in his mind. The place had been putting on shows as long as he'd lived in Berlin. Hard to imagine it as anything else. Sure, he could have turned it back into what it was — a straight cabaret — but that would not have been fair to the girls. It was hard enough letting them go….

He and Feliks shared a bottle of wine that night, after he broke the news to everyone. He anticipated a backlash. But none came. The girls were saddened, sure, but they seemed to understand. Well. Hardly any of them had been there long enough to feel the attachment Roderich had. Except for Feliks. After Antonio, Feliks was the club's most veteran performer. Roderich expected him to take it the news personally. But the Pole confounded him again.

"I've watched what this place has done to you over the years, Roderich," Feliks had said. "It's an albatross. And with all that's happening, maybe it's time to just let it go."

He had pushed what Feliks said out of his mind, then, blaming it on the wine. But Feliks' tongue, usually gifted in gossip, had a surprisingly delicate side. And the words ran through his head again.

Roderich examined the backdrops. They were the last things to go. A theater in Charlottenberg had agreed to purchase them. The manager was scheduled to show up at the end of the week for them. Roderich sighed as he unhung them. At least Ludwig wasn't here to see this, he thought, rolling up one of the scenes Feliciano had painted.

.

Roderich stepped out of the stage wing. He could not bring himself to finish unhanging all of the backdrops — not after finding the one Ludwig and Feliciano had painted together. He paused on stage a moment. The club had never seemed so cavernous. So empty.

He made his way down to the dance floor, feeling as if this was happening to someone else and not him. Odd, how his attachment to this place had grown. He had resented it, at first, the anchor that tethered him to Berlin. But that resentment changed as the years passed. It became a challenge, a duty. A passion. Roderich loved the shows the girls put on, the music he played. Striving for perfection. He would not have pushed himself night after night otherwise.

But now….

That was all gone.

What was left?

Had all of his efforts been for nothing? Was the club even _his_ anymore?

Roderich sank onto his piano bench. Maybe Feliks was right. Maybe it was time to let it go….

Roderich slid the piano lid up. His hands hovered over the keys. He wanted to play something, but his fingers would not move.

Images and sound rewound in his mind. The club flickered around him as memories of another country, another _life,_ intruded. He was in his parent's estate, the university concert hall, a tavern in the Italian countryside. Rocks replaced tables. Snow spread from his feet. Roderich shut his eyes. He had just finished his debut night, he was going over notes with Antonio, scales with Ludwig….

Roderich's eyes shot open. The rocks and snow had disappeared. All that remained was the present. Ever-changing and empty. The club was no longer his. Probably hadn't been for a few years. At least since the Nazis took power. He had been too blind, too stubborn, to see it. The club was no longer his. It wasn't Gilbert's or Ludwig's, Antonio's or Feliks'. It belonged to the Reich. And they — _they_ — scattered back to the shadows. Where they belonged.

Roderich raked his hair back. He rested his elbows on his knees, cradling his head in his hands.

Grey light spilled in from the lobby as one of the doors opened and shut.

"Specs?" Gilbert called. Then, seeing the pianist at his bench: "Everything okay?"

Roderich sighed. "...Fine. I'm fine."

Gilbert went over to the piano and rested his arms on top.

"The second time my life has turned upside down," Roderich continued. "It doesn't seem real."

"Only the second?" Gilbert quipped.

Roderich puffed out a laugh and shook his head.

Gilbert pulled a chair over and sat. "C'mon. It's not so bad." He placed a hand on the Austrian's knee.

Roderich looked up, his face drawn. "I hope you never have to be in my place, Gilbert. To know what this feels like."

Gilbert drew back. Because he knew. Of _course_ he knew. It was something that, once felt, could never be forgotten. He knew what it was like to have something so familiar ripped suddenly away.

Roderich's words made him feel oddly small. Suddenly he was a boy again, caught under an iron grey winter sky in Dresden. His father's death. His brother's birth. Friedrich...

"I don't know if I want to do this anymore," Roderich was saying.

"Do...what?"

" _This,"_ Roderich sighed. "This club. Or...whatever it is now."

Gilbert scrubbed at the grey paint staining his fingers.

"All the time I put into this place, when I should have — " Roderich's voice caught. He lit a cigarette. "It was out of spite, I suppose. I hated you for leaving me here. I put everything — everything I _had_ into it. And now look. It never mattered. Feliks was right. It's an albatross."

"You can't give up, Specs."

Roderich puffed out a bitter laugh. "That's hilarious. Especially coming from you, the king of transience."

"That was low, Roddy. I haven't run in a long time."

"I know. I didn't mean that." Roderich rubbed his forehead, took a drag from his cigarette. "I-is it too late to start over?"

"I thought that's what we were doing."

Roderich shook his head. "Not here."

"I'm not leaving. Believe me, as someone who's spent nearly his entire life starting over, it's not as easy as you'd think."

Silence fell between them. Roderich finished his cigarette.

"...Would you take it over? If I gave it to you?"

Gilbert cocked his head. "You mean...the club?"

Roderich nodded. "I think this place is good for you."

"I...b-but it's _yours,_ Roddy. It's your money. I-I can't—"

"Yes, you can. You can do more than just pull a tap and mix drinks. You're smart, Gilbert. One thing I should have told you more often. You're smart. And I've kept my personal and business finances separate; whatever revenue earned – it would no longer belong to me. I would turn over complete ownership to you."

"...And what — what would you do?"

"I'd start over," Roderich said, tipping his chin up. "Maybe teach. Or compose my own songs for once."

Gilbert smirked. "You've been thinking about this for a while now, haven't you?"

"Perhaps. Ever since Hitler seized power, I've thought about what I — what _we_ – would do."

"Is that what you want?"

Roderich nodded.

Gilbert drew a long breath, his expression closed, as if deep in thought. He looked down at his hands clasped between his knees, shoulders rounded. Oddly defeated. He then picked his head up. A playful grin spread across his lips – though it did not quite make it to his eyes. He stood, offering a hand to Roderich. The Austrian looked up at him a moment, brow furrowed, then took Gilbert's hand and rose.

"Do you still have your record player?" Gilbert asked.

"Yes. Why?"

"Go set it up."

In minutes, the sound of a violin and piano filled the empty club as Fritz Kreisler's recording of _Liebesleid_ played. Gilbert took Roderich's hand again and led him in a waltz.

"What's this for?" Roderich asked.

"Do we need a reason to dance, Roddy?" Gilbert smirked. "This might be the last chance we have."

"What do you mean? We've danced at home plenty of times."

The smile ebbed from Gilbert's face. "…I meant here."

Their rhythm slowed to a gentle sway. Roderich felt the weight of his own obtuseness press down upon him. He looked away, ashamed.

"It's all right," Gilbert said, as if reading his thoughts.

Roderich lifted his gaze, feeling the intensity of those strange red eyes upon him. Gilbert's look, at once transparent and guarded, drew him near. Arms, lean yet firm, surrounded him. The same arms that held him, protected him, shielded him on that mountain all those years ago. Roderich brought a hand up to Gilbert's cheek, while the other traced the contours and ridges of a face he used to know but had quite forgotten as years of resentment buried the memories of the man he once knew. Gilbert nuzzled into the gesture, kissing Roderich's palm. The Austrian laughed in spite of himself. His hands moved to cradle Gilbert's head as Gilbert kissed him, his lips warm and dry. He had forgotten. _How_ could he have forgotten? Roderich reveled in the sensation. Of finding a discovery once lost. His chest swelled as it pressed against Gilbert's, feeling the familiar landscape. Like returning home.

A tear slipped down his cheek as Roderich broke the kiss. He drew closer, resting his chin on Gilbert's shoulder. Lips pressed to his hair; the arms surrounding him tightened. A stuttering breath escaped his throat.

"I'm sorry, Gilbert. I'm sorry for everything."

.

.

.

 **March, 1935**

Ludwig ran a comb through his hair, smoothing any stray strands back in line with the rest of his pomade-coated locks. His checked his part, checked his reflection, hands hesitant as he wondered if he should just do the whole thing over again.

He was just reaching for a towel, ready to scrub away the severe style he'd given his hair, when a hand banged against the bathroom door.

"C'mon, Lutz! Hurry up!" his brother's voice demanded. "I gotta piss."

Ludwig opened the door with an irritated sigh.

Gilbert leaned against the frame, grinning back at him.

"Shouldn't you be at the club — I mean, bar — already?" Ludwig asked, looking at his watch.

Gilbert shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I'll get there when I get there. Shouldn't _you_ be on your way to a wedding?"

"I'm trying," Ludwig protested. "But my hair just won't — work!" He threw the comb in the sink in frustration.

Gilbert smirked. "All those years puttin' on makeup and wigs and you still can't fix your own hair?"

"It was only _one_ year, as I recall," Ludwig muttered. "And the wigs came pre-styled, so…."

"Well, I meant, also when you would help Antonio. And Feliks."

Ludwig looked at his brother, but Gilbert was no longer watching him. He stared down the hallway, his gaze faraway.

"It's always easier doing it to someone else," Ludwig said.

Gilbert cleared his throat, grin back in place as he turned to his brother. "Exactly my point. Now sit," he said, pointing at the toilet.

"But I thought you needed the bathroom."

"Nah. I only said that to get you outta here." Gilbert picked up the comb and raked it over his brother's scalp. Ludwig winced as several hairs parted company. The comb bit into his head again as Gilbert found his part, spread the locks, and finished with a flourish of hands.

"There. Take a look."

Ludwig went back to the mirror. He turned his head this way and that, admiring his brother's work. Somehow Gil had managed to create a wave in his bangs, sweeping them away from his face — unlike the slicked-back look Ludwig usually sported. Fingers lightly touched the contours, worrying it would fall out of place the moment he left.

"You're so fussy," Gilbert teased, making his way to the hall. "Not like _you're_ the one getting married."

"I still want to look decent."

"Hoping to meet someone?" Gilbert winked just as Roderich passed by.

The Austrian paused, peeking in. "Almost ready?"

"Yes," Ludwig said.

"Good." Roderich looked at his watch. "You look nice, Ludwig."

The blonde hummed his thanks as he scrutinized himself one last time in the mirror.

"I'll be leaving soon, too," Gilbert said.

Roderich nodded, taking his hand. Gilbert pulled him close for a quick kiss before Roderich continued on to the kitchen. Ludwig sighed through his nose.

"What?" Gilbert groused. "You've seen us kiss before. Stop acting so virginal about it."

"I know. And just because you two are happily cohabitating again," Ludwig muttered sternly, "don't tease me for wanting the same thing."

Gilbert rolled his eyes. They never could have an amicable brotherly exchange — it always ended with one, or both, losing their temper with the other. And Gilbert was just about to tell his brother as much when a knock on the door interrupted him.

"My two o'clock is early," Roderich called, frantic. "Gilbert!"

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Shut myself in the bedroom and pretend I don't exist," the older Beilschmidt sighed. He shot a slanted glance at Ludwig and lowered his voice. "What was it you were saying earlier, about happily cohabitating?" Gilbert shuffled down the hall. The bedroom door banged shut.

Ludwig gripped the sides of the sink. He felt suddenly hollow. He wanted to apologize, but Roderich was already opening the front door. And he needed to get moving, if he was going to make it to the wedding on time.

Ludwig retrieved his coat from his room as Roderich's two o'clock piano lesson was taking her seat on the bench. The girl's mother looked up, startled, as Ludwig's large frame maneuvered into the living room.

Ludwig felt the tips of his ears reddening. A few strands of the carefully coiffed hair his brother had styled hardly five minutes ago broke loose and fell across his forehead. His scalp prickled.

"My apologies, Frau Wiebke," Roderich was saying. "This is Ludwig, my — "

"Cousin," Ludwig supplied. "I was just heading out. Sorry for having disturbed you." He shrugged his coat onto his shoulders.

Roderich smiled at his guests. "Give Irina our — my — best," he called.

Ludwig nodded and was out the door. He buttoned his coat and shoved his hands in his pockets as he descended the stairs. He paused on the landing, looking back up at his apartment door. Muted sounds of young hands practicing scales drifted down the stairwell. He thought of his brother, shut away in his own house. The hollow feeling gnawed at him.

It had been almost five months since the Supper Club was closed and rebranded as _Die Insel._ Five months, and already so much had changed. Roderich stepped down as owner in January. He handed that role over to Gilbert. It wasn't meant to be permanent, or so Gilbert insisted — Roderich just needed a break, that was all. He continued to play piano on the weekends, but that seemed to be the extent of his involvement with the new bar. He even turned over his ledger to Gilbert. And though Gilbert could never seem to manage his own expenses, he proved surprisingly skilled at balancing the books. Maybe because he didn't see the money as _his._ It belonged to the bar, the staff.

It wasn't long after that Roderich started giving private piano lessons. Ludwig knew then, Roderich was not taking a break — he was done with the bar. The lessons were usually scheduled when Ludwig and Gilbert were at work. It limited the chance encounters, the awkward questions: _who_ _were_ _those men?_ But sometimes, there was overlap. That afternoon was the first time Ludwig experienced it. It was obvious, however, that that wasn't the first time Gilbert had been shunted to the bedroom.

.

March swept down the street, kicking up old leaves around Ludwig's feet. He turned his coat collar up with a disappointed sigh as he left his apartment building, the wind already tugging at his hair. Ludwig headed north up Zossener Straße, towards the Landwehr Canal.

The sky was bright overhead though the afternoon shadows were starting to lengthen. Over the rooftops loomed the dome of the Heilig-Kreuz-Kirche, dominating the Kreuzberg skyline. Its clock-faced tower, a cyclopean eye, left those that passed beneath it with the vague impression they were being watched. Ludwig had grown up under that tower, had felt its gaze on him more than a few times.

The last time he had been to church, he was a boy, living with Uncle. He remembered the inside as a cavern, tall and open, where entangled voices rose, fighting to reach the heavens. He remembered readings and sermons. A flood of words overrunning him. He tried to keep his head above it, to follow the current like the people around him. But somehow he always got sucked to the bottom. He never missed the disappointed look his uncle wore as he fidgeted in his seat. _No creature is hidden from His sight. All are naked and exposed to the eyes of Him to whom we must give account. Remember that, Ludwig,_ uncle had said.

Ludwig bowed his head, beset by a gust pushing its way down the street, and made his way towards the dome.

.

He reached the church just before two o'clock. The wedding party was already gathering outside, getting ready to go in. Irina caught sight of him and rushed over.

"You were almost late. That would have been a first."

"I wanted to look nice," Ludwig said, smoothing a hand over his hair, "but the wind obliterated my attempts."

Irina giggled. "You do look rather roguish, but I think it suits you."

Ludwig smiled. "Is it bad luck to kiss the bride before her wedding?"

"Who cares," Irina shrugged, lifting her veil.

Ludwig pressed his lips to her cheek. "I'm happy for you," he whispered. "See you at the reception?"

"Of course," Irina said. "You owe me a dance."

Ludwig laughed, then joined the rest of the guests trickling into the church.

As he took a seat on the bride's side, Ludwig's thoughts again drifted back to earlier that afternoon, to his brother and Roderich. Hardly a half hour ago. It seemed like a year had passed. Then there were other moments. Moments when he remembered the life they used to have. When Gilbert and Roderich would walk down the street, holding hands. When they used to smile and kiss each other on a sidewalk. There had been arguments then, sure, but…they never had to hide. Those moments felt nearer to Ludwig than any that happened now.

At the time, he would not have said he was happy. Looking back, though, he realized he was. Back then, he wanted nothing but a normal life. Now that he had one, he found it so – what was that word Irina used? – _bourgeois._ Conventional. As much as he thought himself to be a traditionalist, he was discovering he was anything but.

The sound of an organ tore him from his thoughts as the wedding procession began. Mothers, followed by bridesmaids and groomsmen, and last of all, the bride herself. Ludwig looked up with a shy grin as Irina passed. Never would he have imagined unconventional Irina settling for something as traditional as marriage. But, she too had been tempered when the Nazis gained power. As much as she had admonished him for trying to hide his true self, she abandoned her Communist rhetoric a few years ago – though Ludwig still caught hints of it in conversation. And each time it happened, Irina would stop herself mid-sentence, eyes shifting, drawn down and away. A look in equal parts frustration, regret, and despair.

Again, his uncle's words resounded in his head. Again, the reminder – as a slant of sunlight cut through one of the church's high windows, slashing across his chest and hand – that in time, all would be brought to the light.

.

The wedding was over just as quickly as it had begun. Before he knew it, guests were rising, readying to head to the reception as Ludwig sat, staring at the light cutting across him.

He blinked and rose, filing out with everyone else as his church pew emptied.

The reception was held at a nearby dance hall on Mehringdamm. Ludwig joined the guests thronging through the doors. The crowd eventually broke up as they made their way down Blücherstraße, passing the cemetery where those boys had cornered Irina, where Ludwig first kissed her, all those years ago.

The crowd regrouped on the corner, turning as one down Mehringdamm. Men smoked while their wives nagged or gossiped. Ludwig looked at the people surrounding him. There were acquaintances from Irina's work, extended family, friends of her parents. A few were like him – single – but not many. Ludwig bowed his head against the wind and kept walking.

The tables in the dance hall were arranged in a half circle around a glossy wooden floor. A buffet had been set out along one side. Opposite that stood the bar. A few guests were already lining up for afternoon cocktails. Ludwig joined them, ordering a vodka soda. He then found his seat. Glancing at the other names on the place cards at the table, he realized Irina had sat him with her friends from work. He would thank her for that small mercy later – he was dreading having to endure small talk with any extended family.

More and more guests filed in and found their seats. Eventually the wedding party arrived, and the reception began. Music and conversation gave way to lunch, which in turn gave way to more music and dancing. Ludwig was one of the few guests who remained seated – until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he turned and looked up to see Irina, grinning down at him.

"You're not mingling?"

"I've never been good at that," Ludwig said, standing.

"Hmm, that's not what _I_ recall," Irina teased.

Ludwig gave her a pointed look. "That was different." He took her hand. "Would you like to dance?"

Irina smiled, nodding.

Ludwig led her to the dance floor and held her close as they swayed, remembering the time they spent together. He wasn't losing her, he knew. But sometimes it was hard not to think of it that way. He kissed her hand when the song ended. She held onto his for what seemed an eternity, but in an instant, she was gone, off to greet other guests.

Ludwig drifted back to the bar and ordered another cocktail. He kept to the perimeter, watching as people danced and laughed and ate. He noticed another young man, sitting alone at a table. From the side, he looked almost like Alfred, right down to the wireframe glasses he wore. Ludwig blinked, stirring his drink. The young man seemed just as out of place as he felt. Ludwig approached, wondering if he could talk. The young man turned, catching Ludwig's gaze. Ludwig tried to smile, but the man shot him a narrow-eyed glare. Moments later, a young woman approached. She took the man's hand and together they were soon lost amid the crowd dancing.

Ludwig felt his face grow hot. He finished his drink, deciding now was a good time to leave. He needed the fresh air, anyway, he thought.

The bells of Heilig-Kreuz tolled six times as he left the dance hall. Getting close to supper time, but he did not feel all that hungry. Ludwig paused on Mehringdamm, wondering if he should head to _Die Insel_ for another drink, or just go home. The wind from earlier had died down to a light breeze. Ludwig tipped his head back, letting it muss his hair even more. _You look roguish_ , Irina had said. Ludwig smiled at that. Maybe it was true. He had played the part more than a few times as Lola. But now…now he was still too out of the ordinary, his preferences too radical amid the conventionalities that now held sway over his nation. Ludwig put his hands in his pockets and turned his feet north towards the canal.

The sun was heading for the horizon as Ludwig leaned against the fence, looking down into the water. Speckles of gold danced on its rippled surface, eventually darkening as twilight gave way to dusk. Across the way, a train sped past on elevated track. The lights of Hallesches Tor were coming on. Shadows slipped in and out beneath the raised metro. Ludwig continued on. Crossing Mehringbrücke, he descended the steps to walk with the shadows along the canal's opposite bank. It wasn't long before one approached him. A young man, around his age, though Ludwig felt strangely older.

"Hi," the man said, blocking his way.

"Evening," Ludwig responded, side-stepping the young man and continuing his walk.

"In a hurry?" the man asked, matching his pace.

"No. I just…needed to clear my head."

"I could help with that," the man grinned, stepping in front of Ludwig again.

Ludwig huffed, half exasperated by the man's attempt to elicit something from him, and half angry at himself for deliberately choosing that path. He knew what to expect at night in Berlin, down by the bridges or under an elevated train. He knew what to expect. And hadn't a part of him wanted it, too?

"Look, I'm sorry, I – " Ludwig broke off. In the dim light, he could see the sandy brown color of the man's hair, the square angle of his chin. Ludwig knew him. He was the same young man from Roderich's club, the one who had taken over his role as Lola.

Ludwig tried – and failed – to stammer out another apology. He should go, he really should, but his legs would not listen. The man took the opportunity to close the gap between them. He leaned in to whisper in Ludwig's ear, his breath tickling the blonde's neck, as his hand found Ludwig's thigh and began to trace its way up.

Ludwig's mind engaged at the touch. Gently, he took the man's hand and held it in his own. "Stop. Please."

He kissed the man's cheek. The man looked at him with a questioning expression.

"I'm sorry," Ludwig said again. "It isn't – it isn't fair." He took out his wallet, pressed a few Marks into the man's hand.

Ludwig turned and hastened back the way he came, only slowing once he crossed the bridge. The dome of Heilig-Kreuz was lit. The eye – ever open, ever watchful – cast its hollow stare upon him. Ludwig spared it a glance and continued on, feeling the eye bore into his back.

.

It was after seven by the time Ludwig made it back to the flat. He closed the door, leaning against it a few moments as his eyes slipped shut.

"How was the wedding?"

Ludwig startled and blinked. Roderich had just come into the living room.

"O-oh, um, good. Yeah. It was good."

Roderich turned on the radio. "Have you eaten?"

Ludwig shook his head, wanting to say he wasn't hungry, when his stomach gave a loud grumble in protest. Roderich offered to make dinner; Ludwig helped, just to have something to do – and to keep himself from thinking about that young man by the canal. He could not even remember his name….

Ludwig and Roderich were halfway through dinner when the radio switched over to a news recap. Ludwig's appetite, having returned the moment he smelled Roderich's cooking, disappeared just as quickly upon hearing the broadcast. He sat, staring at his plate a few silent moments. The radio continued its buzz in the background, the words unintelligible, except the one resounding between his ears: Conscription.

Slowly, his eyes found Roderich's. The Austrian's face was inscrutable. Ludwig pushed his plate away, suddenly wishing Ivan was there to tell him what it meant, whether the anxiety now bubbling in his chest was warranted. But Ivan had already left – and that told him all he needed to know.

Roderich wiped the corners of his mouth on a napkin and set it down primly, his eyes expressionless. "Ludwig," he said quietly, "would you go down to the corner vendor and get a newspaper? It's been too long since I've read one."

Ludwig nodded and rose, his feet carrying him through the door and down the stairs. He hardly noticed the chill in the air as he paid the vendor with trembling hands and hastened back to the flat. He paused in the stairwell, eyes straining in the dim light as he scanned the first few pages, but the paper gave just as little information as the broadcast. Ludwig growled in frustration and went upstairs.

Roderich was seated on the sofa. Ludwig tossed the newspaper on the coffee table and sank into a chair, rubbing his forehead.

"There's not much. Just that Hitler's decided to bring back conscription."

Roderich slid the paper over and began to read. He lit a cigarette when he was finished.

"It's only the announcement of their decision. No details yet." Roderich looked at Ludwig, his eyes heavy. "I expect we'll find out more soon enough."

Ludwig made a disparaging sound and stood. He went into the dining room, pouring himself and Roderich a drink.

.

.

.

Gilbert was surprised, when he got home from work that night, to see Ludwig still up. His brother never was much of a night owl. He remembered seeing Lutz yawning his way through curtain calls more than a few times at the cabaret. Roderich, on the other hand, kept a schedule so erratic, Gilbert stopped bothering to make sense of it. Seeing him sitting on the sofa reading at midnight was no surprise.

Gilbert shrugged off his jacket, eyes on his brother as he hung it on a coat rack. Ludwig sat looking out of a window, his posture eerily still, the lines on his face rigid. The radio played quietly in the background.

"What are you still doing up?" Gilbert asked, directing the question to Ludwig.

Ludwig blinked languidly, looking at his brother. "Not tired."

Gilbert sat beside Roderich and lit a cigarette. His eyes caught on the newspaper.

"They've reintroduced conscription," Ludwig said.

"And?"

Ludwig shook his head.

"Is that why you're not tired? You worried or somethin'?"

"…Maybe."

Gilbert stretched and leaned back against the cushions, crossing an ankle over a knee. "Nothing to be scared of. You show up, put your name down, and that's it."

"And what if I don't want to?"

Gilbert sat up and fixed his brother with a hard gaze. "Then they'll send you to prison. Or worse. Look...yeah, conscription's back. So what? What does that mean? You're working yourself up over nothing. There's not even a _war—"_

"Yet," Ludwig scoffed.

Gilbert took a final drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke through his nose. "There's honor in serving your country."

"But this doesn't give me the chance to make that choice, Gil."

The look on Gilbert's face grew weary. "Sometimes...stuff just happens, and you don't _get_ a choice. That's just how it is. That's _life,_ kid."

"I'm not a _kid_ anymore," Ludwig growled. He stood and left.

Gilbert scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed.

"Well at least you didn't lose your temper," Roderich remarked, closing his book.

"I'm too tired to," Gilbert said.

"That's a small mercy. I don't think our neighbors would appreciate a midnight shouting match."

Gilbert lit another cigarette.

"He has a right to be scared, you know," Roderich said.

Gilbert cocked an eyebrow. "Were you scared?"

"Out of my wits. But I wasn't allowed to let it show."

Gilbert frowned and shook his head. "I wasn't scared. There are worse things..." He put out his cigarette and leaned forward, elbows resting on knees. "You do realize we're probably within the age range."

"I doubt I fit their model of an able-bodied man," Roderich coughed, reflexively rubbing his bad leg.

Gilbert smirked.

"It's too soon to go through this again," Roderich continued, his voice quiet.

"You sound like Lutz."

"Not everyone revels in uncertainty the way you do. And I won't deny I'm concerned, Gilbert."

"Why? _You_ don't have anything to be worried about," Gilbert snapped, glancing at Roderich's leg.

"Not for myself," Roderich said solemnly.

Gilbert looked away, the full implications of Roderich's statement feeling like a punch in the chest. "And what would you have us do, then?"

"We could leave."

"And go where?" Gilbert scoffed. "To your country? Germany's in far better shape than Austria. We have a life here _._ Ludwig has his work _here._ We have the bar _here._ I know you've been wanting a new start, but I don't think leaving is the answer."

Silence fell between them, save the radio. Roderich picked up his book though he was in no mood to read, his mind too lost in thought. Gilbert lingered, listening to the music a few minutes longer, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. Stifling a yawn, he silently stood and switched the radio off. His feet dragged down the hall as he headed for bed. Roderich watched from over the top of his book, only closing it when he heard the click of the bedroom door. He waited a few more moments before setting the book down and rising, turning off all the lights. The moon's silver light spilled through the windows, pooling at his feet. Roderich limped down the hall, feeling his way as he went. At the dining room, he turned, carefully maneuvering around the chairs so as not to knock one into the table or wall. He opened his study door, locked it behind him, and took out his ledger.

.

.

.

* * *

 ** _A/N_** _Musical inspiration: Wenn ich mir was wünschen dürfte — Marlene Dietrich_

 _Liebesleid – Fritz Kreisler_

 _I'm also in the process of making a playlist on Spotify for all the songs I reference here and in Lost Generation, so if you guys are interested, I can send along a link when it's ready._

 _The title comes from a line in T.S. Eliot's "East Coker" (it's my current poetry obsession)._

 _Albatross reference comes from Samuel Taylor Coleridge's poem_ The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, _which led to the metaphorical meaning of an albatross as something that is burdensome or causes guilt._

 _Law on the Establishment of the Wehrmacht of March 16, 1935 – by 1935, Germany's disregard for the military restrictions set forth in Treaty of Versailles was out in the open for all to see. Not only was the announcement made that the country was re-arming itself, conscription was also reintroduced. Essentially, the standing army was to remain at 100,000 men as decreed by the treaty, but each year, a new group of conscripts equaling that size were sent to training._

 _Chapter 6 is in the works and is (probably) halfway finished. No promises as to when it will be up, because y'know, life is like that. But we will find out more about Ludwig's boss, there's a blast from Roderich's past, and Gil and Ludwig have a bro moment._

 _Thank you all for reading/favoriting/following/reviewing!_


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